


New Direction

by florahart



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Career Changes, Divorce, F/M, Original Characters - Freeform, Rebound relationships, passively disordered eating, past Ron/Hermione which is still present at the start of this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-26
Updated: 2009-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27728666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: Hermione never expected her tidy life, which had been generally going according to plan--career, marriage, eventually kids--to come apart before she even turned twenty-five.  Then she never expected it to take on a new shape without any plan at all.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Charlie Weasley
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	New Direction

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a Big Bang in ...2009? End notes related to the tags, in case any of them worry you and you need more information before reading. Posting to AO3 in 2020, somewhat but not massively edited.

Hermione sealed up the box with a pass of her wand over the seam where the flaps met, then glanced around. That was the last one, except for the cage in the corner. 

It felt all wrong, packing up her life and leaving, but it had to happen; she didn't think there was much to be done. They'd already argued, talked, and cried, and much as she found it difficult to deal with failure, there it was. She'd failed. 

Or they had. It was a little difficult to really assign blame in any rational way, since it was probably both of their faults, for having expectations, for having lives, for having goals that didn't match. 

She shrunk the box and put it in the trunk with the rest, then levitated the whole thing and started down the stairs. Her new flat was empty and waiting, and she wanted to get enough unpacked to feel like she had a home. Tomorrow was going to be awkward enough, difficult enough, without feeling ungrounded and homeless as well. 

"Need any help?" Ron was at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved into his pockets and his fringe in his eyes. 

"No, I've got it." Hermione suppressed a surge of irritation at the fact he'd managed to wait until now to ask; she hadn't wanted his help in the first place, but he might have offered at a point at which there was some meaning to the gesture, mightn't he? "You've the new address, in case you, um, in case I've left anything?" 

"I think I can find you," he said. His tone was gruff, which was also irritating; he'd been the one to tell her they weren't working, and while she realized that had been brave of him, in a way, and probably something he hadn't wanted to do, she didn't like that he got to be upset, too. 

Which was absurd of her, but it was how she felt. She wondered (again) whether she should see if she could find some sort of individual therapist to talk to about how all this was making her feel, but it seemed a waste of time; she mostly thought she knew how she felt, and besides, the marriage counselor had already been over most of the likely ground to be covered.

The trunk clunked to a rest on the floor when she stopped and looked up at Ron. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to say (thanks for the two years and two months of marriage, sorry it didn't work out? There was no real way to say goodbye to one's husband on moving out the night before setting into motion the last phase of settling their affairs in a too-hot little office off Diagon Alley), but she wanted to say something. 

He looked at the floor. "I didn't want to hurt you," he said, very quiet and almost as though he expected some sort of absolution from her. "I mean, I waited and tried to figure out whether it was fixable." 

She didn't really have any absolution to give. She didn't think he'd set out to cause pain, but the end result was, this was painful, so the absence of intent wasn't really all that relevant, was it? 

"I don't think you did," she said after a moment. "Mean to hurt me, I mean. But it still hurts, Ron. You've been who I expected to stay with for, what, ten years? Twelve?"

"Twelve? You're turning twenty-five next month, Hermione. You had plans at thirteen?" 

"Hard to imagine, I know, but yes, I suppose I did. Certainly since before that bloody Yule Ball you didn't ask me to." 

"I'm never going to be forgiven that, am I?" 

"I forgave you for that ages ago, or I never would have kept thinking we were, you know, us. We wouldn't be married in the first place. That doesn't mean it's not a useful point of reference as far as the time frame." 

"I can't believe you're talking about points of reference for time frames while you leave." 

She sat down on the trunk. "Ron, you're confusing me. Have you changed your mind?" 

"What?" 

"You act like me leaving is something I'm doing all on my own, nothing to do with you, but you're the one who first pointed out how screwed up this relationship is. And you were right. All the counseling and arguing just proved it. I can't be what you want, and at this point, I just want to save the friendship if that's at all possible. I really hope it is" She felt tears well up in her eyes, but blinked them back and didn't try to say anything else; he'd just get defensive about making her cry, and that never ended well. 

"I..." Ron sighed and pulled one hand free of his pocket to shove his fringe back over his head. "No, I haven't changed my mind about any of the, you know, problems, and I guess you haven't either or you would have said something. I mean, I'm not saying anything like, this was all about making you decide you would choose me over your career or anything blockheaded like that. It really wasn't; I may have the emotional depth of a teaspoon--" 

"Speaking of things that will never be forgiven." 

He grinned briefly, though it was a shallow grin and faded quickly. "But I do know that manipulating someone into making a choice like that would be fucking poisonous to the relationship even if it would end up feeling good to be chosen, which it kind of wouldn't. I don't even know if that makes sense." 

"Not really, though I sort of think it might, at the base of it. Anyway. I should go, then." 

Ron pushed away from the wall with his shoulder blades and shoved his hands into his pockets even deeper than before. "But what I mean is, I haven't changed my mind, but I hate that you're leaving. I feel like I want to stop you, which, that would be cruel and horrible, kind of, to try to get you to stay because I don't want to be left." 

"It would," she agreed. "But it has to be me leaving; Auntie Muriel didn't leave the house to me, after all."

"I _know_ , Hermione."

"I wasn't suggesting you didn't. It's just, it's not that I'm leaving you. We're leaving each other, and you're staying in the same residence."

"Yeah. I guess that's one way to look at it. And my arms think they ought to hug you, because we've been hugging for years now, and it's a messed-up impulse now, you know?" 

She nodded. "It's like a pattern that has to be unlearned, I suppose. A goodbye hug, which usually comes with a little peck on the cheek, which often becomes something a little more..." She stood up as well. "Plus, it's not like anything physical was ever what was wrong for us; the sex was fine." 

"Good to know." 

She shrugged. "I'd have said if it weren't." 

"Of course you would." He chuckled slightly. 

"It's weird to try to undo the touching parts of all these patterns we have and try to keep the friend parts." Even as she said it, she was reaching for him, the hug automatic despite that they'd just decided not to hug, to peck on the cheek, to... She pulled away as their lips met. "What are we doing?" 

"Being really bad at this part?" He didn't let go of her, though she certainly could have stepped back if she'd wanted. "I don't know. I've never got divorced before." 

"Me either. Another first we have together, then, I suppose." She looked into his eyes for a moment, then lifted her lips to his again. It was cheap, familiar comfort, and it was, she reminded herself, not as though they were out to hurt each other. 

And it was a basic biological drive, and an emotional situation, and they did basically love one another, just not in a way that worked well for being married. At all.

Not to mention that they really _were_ good at the sex part, at the kissing, at the touching. He'd always been able to melt her in that regard, even when they were fighting about every conceivable other thing, and at this point she felt damn needy. Better judgment was really bloody cold compared to physical drives backed up by hormones and fears.

Which was why when he turned them around and backed her into the wall he'd previously been leaning against, lifting her to wrap her legs around his waist, she didn't stop him. Didn't even really consider doing so, beyond a fleeting thought. A moment later she shoved a hand between them to unbutton his flies. 

Her track pants had a drawstring, a long one, and were loose on her in the first place--actually, they were probably his anyway--and if it was awkward to just pull them off her arse and leave the fabric bunched up between them, it did at least work. The crotch of her knickers was shoved aside in a second, and then he was inside her, familiar and solid. This was utterly wrong, and she knew it--intellectually as well as emotionally--but stopping now seemed a little ridiculous, and besides, she wasn't going to get any more sex any time soon, most likely, so she watched his face go intense as he fucked her and rocked her hips with him. 

As soon as he came, she tightened her thighs, grunting, and stilled, letting him pant and shudder for a moment before disentangling herself and setting her feet on the floor. 

Five minutes later she was through the Floo and out of their--his--house and into her new flat, setting down Griselda's cage on the top of the stack of boxes. 

God. She should have stopped him, but then, right now every reaction she had to nearly everything was kind of a mess, and for all she knew, that would have been the wrong impulse, too.

Damn it.

Once she'd set down the trunk on the floor, she opened the lid and pulled out the box of bedding. It wasn't even supper time, according to the clock, but she mostly wanted to make up her new bed and crawl into it. She had work tomorrow morning before their afternoon appointment, and if she was going to be remotely prepared to get anything done, she was going to need enough sleep to counteract at least some of the weird emotion and pain of their breakup. 

Plus, when they met tomorrow she was going to need to be well-rested to face him. They hadn't had sex in a month, ever since everything had started falling apart so badly--not because the same impulses they'd just let rule hadn't been there, but because they'd both agreed it was a bad idea--and now she'd just let him fuck her against a wall as they ended their marriage. That couldn't happen again. 

She slowly made the bed by hand, smoothing down the fitted sheet and tucking the cover and quilt into place, then pushed around shrunken boxes until she found enough wardrobe to organize her chest of drawers and vanity. The bath already had shampoo and soap, and towels had been in with the bedding; everything else could wait. 

Long shadows crossed the ceiling from the setting sun outside as she stripped out of her clothes and considered a hot shower. No, she just wanted to get into bed. She slid between the sheets and put her head on the pillow, staring up at the darkening ceiling, acutely aware of the remnant stickiness between her legs and the vaguely unsatisfied feeling of needing more. 

Finally, not pleased with herself, she reached down and slipped her fingers into place, circling her clit and resolutely not thinking about her husband or anyone else until she tensed and came. Much later, after the clock struck midnight, she rolled over for at least the tenth time, and fell asleep. 

Getting divorced from someone you still had complicated feelings for and a decade and more of history with really sucked.

\--

Working out how to live with the new routines and patterns of solitude wasn't coming easily.

Hermione knew she was innately bookish and inclined to disappear into research. She didn't have a problem with that, in the abstract, but this wasn't the abstract; this was her new--changing--life. And in her new life, she was having a hard time finding reasons and opportunities to interact.

Which was making her lonely. She had colleagues and work-friends, but that wasn't the same as a real social life, and of course, all _their_ friends were _Ron's_ friends (at least, more than they were hers), and even though she knew, intellectually, that there was no reason to isolate herself, she was. And life as an adult didn't come with a dormitory and the concomitant built-in chatting and sharing.

Maybe she should have thought of a reason to go to university and live in student housing somewhere. Of course, keeping an owl and other accoutrements of the Wizarding world there wouldn't have been easy, and she didn't want to vanish entirely from the life she'd been working on for nearly fifteen years. Still, the social aspect was hard. It would probably get easier.

She stared out the window with her coffee--one of those many new patterns, drinking coffee in the mornings at home. Ron hadn't liked the smell of the stuff, and she'd always just got a cup from one of the shops near the Ministry, but now, there was no reason not to have her own coffee maker and drink it at home. It was also cheaper. 

The leaves were starting to fall from the trees quickly, leaving the street outside bleak and bare, though there had been no indication of snow or much in the way of other winter weather. She watched the early Muggle crowd shuffle from their houses and flats out to the tube in singles and groups of two and three, then chastised herself for being maudlin and drank the rest of her cup in one gulp, then went to get a second. She had twenty minutes before she needed to go.

She'd never quite realized how much she relied on Ron's family for socialization, as well as for, well, _family_. The divorce was friendly, it really was, but at least for a little while, she didn't think spending Sundays at the Burrow was reasonable, and so far, she'd stuck to only dropping by sometimes early in the day, for brunch. Ron rarely arrived before lunch-time, so the awkwardness that they were working to lose but hadn't yet was minimized, and she was happy to see Harry and occasionally Bill and Fleur with their two busy chatty toddlers. 

Her own parents were a different story entirely. They'd stayed where she'd put them, in Australia, and had only mostly forgiven her for her tampering with their memories. They'd had a practice building there when she'd restored them after the war, and she hadn't been close to them in the first place. Of course she hadn't; Hermione was their only child, so she had no siblings with whom to gossip and tease, and she'd been away more than home since the age of eleven. For the last several years, she'd spoken to her parents monthly, occasionally more often, by telephone, and had gone to visit for a week each summer. She hadn't quite managed to tell them, yet, that she and Ron had divorced. That her connection to this world was no longer one of legality as well as choice. That she was still choosing to stay.

She would, eventually, but it was still a topic she wasn't comfortable with, even among people with whom she was fundamentally comfortable. And her parents, unfortunately, weren't in that number. She knew it wasn't her fault, wasn't anyone's fault, she and Ron had grown apart, but still, she felt as though she'd somehow failed; the knowledge, passed along via rumor and office chatter, that Ron was seeing Larissa Claridge already, not six weeks since the ink on their final documents was dry, was no help. She sighed and wondered whether Larissa Claridge was already sleeping in her old bed, and whether she was the sort of girl who would fuck him against the wall in the entry-way on her way out the door. Probably; she was just twenty-one and, if memory served, rather dim and a bit giggly, even for a Hufflepuff.

Not that there was anything wrong with Hufflepuffs.

She didn't think he was particularly serious about Larissa, and didn't exactly begrudge him an easy rebound relationship, but the fact he'd gone for someone so opposite her was rather depressing. And he had every right to live his life, even if it was making her efforts at moving on look utterly wan and pathetic; "continuing to work hard" didn't really seem quite the same as growing new relationships and having fun with friends.

And there she was going maudlin again, and about sex, to boot. She knew it was ridiculous, and that there had been nothing _wrong_ with having farewell sex with her husband, but she was still bothered by the entire situation. And bothered that he'd evidently found a new source of orgasms a lot faster than she had. And bothered that she missed sex as much as she did. And bothered by the fact she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

She dumped the gritty dregs of her coffee into the sink and rinsed the cup, glancing around the kitchen and sweeping away the crumbs from her toast before she went to get her cloak. She needed to go soon, anyway, before the general malaise that seemed to strike her every morning set in.

She wrapped her cloak around her, grimacing as her upper arm brushed across her breast because it was tender, and went out into the chilly gray morning. She could have taken the floo, of course, but she'd decided that as long as she was making new patterns in her life, she might as well make one in which she walked to work, taking various routes and enjoying the feeling of the activity.

Besides, she rarely got any other exercise; previously her primary physical exertion had been sex, though she had to admit that really had only counted as consistent and heavy exercise in the three years she and Ron had first lived together--two before and one after the wedding. Since then, quantities had tended to fall off at least some as the law of averages came into play, and while she'd never been unhappy with their sex life, on looking back, she wondered if the decline had been symptomatic, or merely a matter of growing older, getting busier, and having jobs.

She shook her head at herself and resolved to put the topic out of her mind, then turned off the main road, making a deliberate detour through a neighborhood she'd never visited before and increasing her pace in order not to be late. 

She arrived at the office at three minutes before nine, slightly out of breath and in a much better frame of mind than she'd been in earlier. Will Baker nodded a greeting as she brushed past, and Miranda stood to hand her a thick file before she could ask. Her first client wouldn't be in for half an hour, so she opened it as she headed for her desk, walking around to sit down and allowing herself to slump back into the soft leather as she read.

Ordering a really nice chair had been one of the first things she'd done after getting her own office last winter, right after completely revamping the filing system and firing the idiot who'd lost track of an entire creatures division in the organizational chart and managed not to notice even when he'd been looking at the chart as the head of said division was standing before his desk asking how to go about acquiring a new assistant. 

Her back was sore, and the muscles of her thighs twitched slightly from the sudden exercise, but the chair was a wonder of magical engineering, gently massaging just blow her waist and heating against her legs. She was nearly sure George had sold the creator the use of at least six different patents, though she hadn't had a chance to ask, and hadn't seen George since before she and Ron had decided to separate.

Which she was definitely not thinking about now. 

She paged through the compiled notes on fraudulent uses of magical contracts, attending carefully to names of the victims, some of which repeated several times--Castel and Warren, ltd, was definitely going down--until the little wind-up clock on her desk hopped for her attention. Five minutes to the first client.

She got up and went to the washroom off her office to check she wasn't looking windblown or bedraggled, then washed her hands and made a mental note to see if Miranda could find her something to settle her stomach. Her toast was sitting heavily in her belly, and she had too much to do today to be distracted by that.

She went back into her office and opened the door, causing Miranda to look up and hold up one finger as she finished writing out something and then took the Extendable Earbud out of her ear. "That was Magical Accidents; Starkey wants five minutes of your time this afternoon about some sort of incident in Wilshire. Is two o'clock all right?"

Hermione nodded. "If it works on my schedule, I don't see why not. Does he want me to come up?"

"Probably; that man hasn't voluntarily moved his arse off his chair for any reason than to go put it in another chair since 1954."

"Now, Miranda." Hermione privately agreed, but she didn't really want her staff saying nasty things about other Ministry employees.

"Sorry. Anyway, I'll bring Miss Pelham in as soon as she arrives."

"Perfect." Hermione mentioned her unsettled stomach, which Miranda noted on one of the dozen or so lists on her desk, and went back into her office to arrange the forms she expected to need and a few that were less likely. Elizabeth Pelham was due any moment, and she liked to be prepared for anything the client might need. 

It was a practice that had served her well and got her the office and the chair.

Her stacks were neatly straightened and ready when Miranda knocked twice and opened the door. Hermione stood and went back around the desk, extending her hand even as she steered the woman to a chair. They had a lot to discuss.

\--

“Miranda?” Hermione looked up from the last page of the Stillwell documents and frowned; the office was dark and even the outer door seemed unusually silent. The clock was dragging itself dejectedly along the front edge of the desk, obviously on the very last tick of its energy, and she wondered how longer it had hopped. Its face showed half ten, but that seemed absurd. Still, the mechanics were simple enough: as it wound down, it slowed, so mostly like that meant it was gone eleven o’clock.

That was probably why neither Miranda nor anyone else was still in the suite. Damn. Actually, she did remember a head poking in the door to say she would be the last out again, but surely that had just been a short time ago. Hadn’t it? 

She rummaged in her drawer for a snack, something to settle her stomach, which, now she was considering the time, was growling, and came up empty. Damn again. She picked up the clock and wound it, then waved her hand over it with _tempus veritas_. Not just eleven, then; a quarter past. 

A stroll around the outer office turned up not so much as a cracker, and she noted they were also out of tea. For a moment she considered owling Miranda about that, but for one thing, then she’d have to explain what kind of bloody lunatic is still at the office four hours after even the most dedicated staff have gone to supper. Also, Miranda would certainly already know and bring a fresh box in the morning. Probably the Danbury twins had drunk the last of it in their ridiculously long consultation this afternoon.

Well, then she’d just finish transcribing her notes into a state from which they’d be suitable to get into the record, and get home in time for a bit of a nap before a good breakfast in the morning. Yes.

She opened the Stillwell file back to the front and started transcribing.

It wasn’t her fault the file ran to nearly six hundred pages, but when she looked up again the exterior window showed gray-blue sky fading away the last of the pink and all she had time to do was stick her head into the office Floo and summon a fresh shirt and underwear. She banished the ones she’d been wearing, changed quickly, and splashed her face with water in the washroom, then headed down to the employee break room for a terrible cup of coffee and maybe a pastry or some such.

All they had were a sort of meat-filled dumpling and some egg cups, and her stomach turned at the thought. She stuck to just the coffee, heavily indoctrinated with cream, and made it back to the office just in time to find Miranda settling in behind her desk.

“Sleep well?” she asked.

Miranda squinted at her. “I did. Did you?”

“I was here a bit late,” Hermione said. “But, I managed well enough. Oh! I meant to pick up more tea on the way in.”

“Did you, now?” Miranda asked, holding up a parcel that turned out to in fact be three varieties and two boxes of crunchy biscuits.

“Oh, good. I thought you would probably remember anyway, but one can never have too much, can one?”

Miranda gave her another doubtful look, but didn’t say anything. Ten minutes later she took the half-consumed coffee away and set a steaming cup of mint at Hermione’s elbow. Hermione nodded mock-absently and handed over the Stillwell notes, promising herself she’d leave by five and get plenty of sleep that night.

Now what was next? She looked at her timetable and sighed. “Carrington Speerchuckle was as ridiculous and snobbish as his name suggested, and he wanted to discuss the two large buildings of flats being constructed on the next street over from his home. She bet herself a biscuit he’d describe the prospective neighbors as unwashed or disreputable sometime in the first three minutes. 

She lost; he just pulled a face and called them poor, then directed her to invent a good reason to halt the construction or lose his business as well.

She regretted the missed biscuit more, but a bet was a bet. Onward to the Danbury case.

\--

"Mrs Weasley--"

"I'm very sure I've told you before that I returned to my own name, on my divorce."

"Yes, yes, sorry. Miss Weasley--"

"Granger." Hermione rolled her eyes and wondered how long it would be before Wilbert, the fussy and spectacularly ancient part-time healer the Ministry kept on staff--her own bloody innovation, brought on by memories of the time Arthur had been attacked, though she'd never envisioned anyone quite exactly like Wilbert--let her up.

"Right, right, yes, Miss Granger. This is the third time I've had to come round to see to you in just the last month."

Hermione shrugged. "I'm sure I was just a bit hungry, is all. Sometimes I get very absorbed in my work."

"Very good; however, you see, what troubles me is that this is the same conversation we had on each of the previous occasions."

"Why is it you can remember the details of our conversations, but not my _name_?" Hermione asked, keeping her tone conversational even though throttling the irritating man was looking more and more like an option she might like to choose.

"Memory is a funny thing, my dear. Details related to one's life's work are stored and recalled very differently than, for instance, the currently-preferred name of a transient patient."

"If I tell you that you remembering my name improves the faintness in my head--"

"Yes, and when you revive from one of these spells, you're rather cranky, and in fact, I do remember your name, young lady, but you never let me check your pulse unless you're distracted. Tell me, do you think the pain in your stomach is, if we were to adopt a scale of one to thirteen, a seven, or perhaps an eleven?"

"Why would we use a scale to thirteen?"

Wilbert patted her shoulder. "Just answer the question."

"On a more rational scale of one to _ten_ , I'd say it's a six or a seven."

"And is it always a six or a seven?"

Hermione scowled and hoped that Miranda had closed the door this time; she very much didn't need her staff gawping in the doorway, but she couldn't see it around the bulk of Wilbert's body. And lifting her head to peer around him made her feel rather dizzy again. "No, sometimes it's a five," she said.

"It is ever an eight?"

"Rarely."

"Such as this morning, I expect."

"Look. Just repair whatever it is, and let me get back to work."

Wilbert shook his head. "I've been told you're a bright girl."

"Woman, and I am."

"Then, tell me. Why should I not be _gravely_ concerned about your apparent inability to follow simple instructions? I've told you: you need to reduce your work-load, and eat healthy meals. Getting along on coffee and intermittent handfuls of crackers doesn't constitute compliance."

"I just forgot to eat, is all." Hermione closed her eyes and took a breath, then sat up, dizzy or not. "Now, if you'd be so kind as to help me to the cafeteria, I'll get some fruit, and--"

"I don't think that will do." Wilbert's face was kindly, but firm, and Hermione's heart sank. 

"Why not?"

"Because, Miss Granger, I've given you every opportunity to take care of yourself, and now, I'm doing it for you." He stepped back enough to offer her a hand up, then wrapped an arm around her shoulder. He was stronger than he looked. "We're going to St. Mungo's."

"But I have an appointment in--"

"Your remarkably capable and quite concerned secretary has seen to rescheduling the rest of the week's meetings," he said. "That was before you regained consciousness."

"I wasn't unconscious for that long." Hermione frowned again. "...was I?"

"I'm not sure exactly how long; it was a good ten minutes after I arrived, and she indicated you'd been alone in your office for a little while before that. Still, it's safe to say you didn't rouse immediately, and that worries me. I want you to see a specialist."

"In what, fainting?"

"Yes." He started walking, pulling her along with him, and to her profound irritation, her feet followed right down the corridor and to the floos.

Damn it.

She'd just forgotten to eat, was all.

Again.

And yes, she was spending a lot of time in the office, but why not? She didn't have anyone waiting in her flat, and there was an enormous amount to do. And she was up for another promotion, which would be the third in two years, and not doing everything as well as possible was unacceptable; there were no circumstances preventing her from doing excellent work. She was on track to take over a division of Magical Law before she was thirty.

Wilbert dropped her off with a short perky witch named Charity Clementine and gave a little wave, then popped away, leaving a tightly-rolled scroll of his notes for the staff.

Twenty minutes later, Hermione was staring at Charity Clementine in horror. "A _month?_ "

"You've an ulcer I'm surprised hasn't ruptured into something worse; you're under-nourished; your reflexes are poor; your memory is excellent but clearly not working to potential; and Wilbert thinks, and I agree, that you're working yourself effectively to death. You look worse than most of the patients I saw immediately after the Battle of Hogwarts."

Hermione blinked. "I'll take it easier. I'll hire another assistant, how about, and, um, and recruit Harry Potter to make me leave by seven unless there's an emergency."

Charity Clementine was clearly not especially impressed by Harry's name. She pursed her lips. "Define emergency."

Hermione opened her mouth, then shook her head ruefully. "Damn. I was going to say, if someone needs something done. That's probably not what you want to hear."

"No, it's not. Now. A month, at least. Probably two. You eat properly, you find some hobbies, and you do nothing whatsoever about solving every single legal problem in the world by next Thursday."

Hermione sighed. "Could I consult? Bring home one case a week? Something?"

The healer tilted her head sympathetically. "Sorry. I'll make you a deal. Take three weeks off full-time, and tell me what interesting things you did with yourself in that time, and _if_ your body is in much better shape, I'll _consider_ allowing you back to work on a part-time basis a bit early."

Hermione stared down past the hem of the short medical robe she'd been required to put on, at her knees. Which were, she had to admit, looking rather frightfully knobby. She straightened her legs to look at her feet: bony and thin. So were her hands.

Damn it. "I didn't get the sense from Wilbert it was really anything so serious as all that," she said at last.

"Well, it is. You might consider what your friend Harry Potter would think about one of his long-time best friends managing to take from him what the dark lord himself couldn't."

"What?"

"You, of course. It really is a serious matter, Miss Granger."

Hermione grimaced. "Fine. Three weeks, and I'll be back."

"If you can't tell me how you've been relaxing and working to keep that ulcer I just fixed healed, don't bother." Healer Clementine turned away and closed the door behind her, leaving Hermione to get dressed and examine the possibility that actually, all those times Ron told her she was working too hard, he might have had a point. In the last several weeks she'd even stopped her very enjoyable exercise of walking to the office, choosing to arrive sooner in order to get more done. 

The notion she was really doing herself harm frightened her, and while she still thought that a month was probably an excessive estimate of how long she needed to rest, she was going to have to prove it. She pulled on her socks and tied her shoes, belting her skirt neatly even as she noticed that yes, it was two notches tighter than it had been before, and was also still loose. She put on her outer robe with a sigh and opened the door.

First things first: an owl to her supervisor--whom she gathered had already been notified, but that wasn't the same as a personal memorandum--and a trip to the library to read about ulcers, stress, and balancing one's life.

She was good at research, and good at application, so she intended to show Charity Clementine in exactly twenty-one days how fully healed she could be.

She exited St. Mungo's into the crisply chilly early-December weather, and turned to the right, toward the library.

"Miss Granger," someone called from behind her.

She turned to find a man in administrative attire waving at her. As he approached, she could read his St. Mungo's nametag. "Now what, …Elton?"

"I'm to point out that despite the healing work, you haven't had lunch, and to suggest that it would be advisable for your first stop to be for something nourishing to eat. Nothing too rich, though, if you've been getting along on coffee and toast. Your stomach wouldn't take it well."

"I suppose someone is going to come round and tell me every time I try to get anything done, how I can't do whatever it is I was about to do?"

"Of course not. I'm merely reminding you to eat lunch. Although in the materials Healer Clementine owled ahead to the chemist you'll find a clever little device that will remind you on schedule, as well. You left without the paperwork."

"She prescribed an alarm clock?"

"She thought you might find the notion absurd, and suggested I point out that you didn't seem to have another method working effectively."

Hermione groaned and pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. "Fine. What chemist, and what do you suggest, for lunch?"

Elton nodded approvingly and offered three choices of nearby establishments that served clear soups and light meals. He also reminded her that she likely didn't have a great deal of good nourishing food in her flat, so she ought to stop at the market and acquire the makings of soups, stews, sandwiches, and the like before returning home, if she felt up to it.

She didn't feel up to it; right now she felt more like glaring at Elton until he went home. Instead, she nodded and made her escape. Lunch, and then a visit to the library. If she got absorbed in her reading, she could always order take-away tonight, as well. The nice thing about her career success was, she didn't have to scrimp.

\--

Enforced time off was exactly as horrible as Hermione had expected it would be. After the chemist, her trip to the library had been all right, except that thirty minutes in, Harry had appeared at her side and sat down, apparently intent upon disrupting her in as many ways as possible. Finally, she'd put down her book with a huff and asked him what he wanted.

She hadn't liked the answer. Didn't Healer Clementine have any ethics? Honestly. It was an invasion of her privacy for the woman to have Floo-called Harry.

And it was thoroughly irritating that Harry had immediately realized where she was likely to be. And gone along with an irritating plot to keep her from getting anything done. Where was his loyalty, anyway?

She'd thrown up her hands in disgust, selected a stack of books to take with her, snarled when Harry had cut it in half, and taken them to the front desk to charge out.

He'd carried them to her flat for her, which was absurd because there was no reason she couldn't carry half a dozen books on her own, and stayed for another half an hour before reminding her she was supposed to go to the market and asking whether she needed help with that.

It was sweet, she supposed, for him to be concerned, and if she were honest, of course, he'd been concerned the previous couple of times she'd seen him, though she hadn't listened very carefully to his worries. However, sweetness could be annoying, when it was in between a girl and what she had in mind to accomplish.

Still, she'd let him fuss, assured him she could handle going to the market on her own, and agreed to a lunch date for the following day.

And then she'd settled in to read on the couch until half four before going to the market and getting fresh vegetables and bread along with tinned soup that would be easy to heat and eat. And treats for Griselda; she often just let her out to hunt, but if she was going to be shut in, she was probably going to have more correspondence than usual. She hoped. If she didn't, she was probably going to go mad within the week.

Casseroles for one were a little depressing, but she was going to have to figure out something in order not to be on a steady diet of things from a (small) box, so she'd also dug out the little recipe scrapbook that had once been a wedding gift, and started experimenting with pasta.

A little.

Well, she was working on it; she'd never really noticed before how much her mealtimes revolved around the other people with whom she was eating. Books didn't need food, and she generally kept pest-attracting crumbs away from her files at work.

By the third day, her interest in food topics had reached its limit, and she'd finished her books, but the library was closed, so she'd gone for a walk, out of her own neighborhood and along little residential roads twisting and turning from lane to court to drive. She'd come home an hour later, pink, tired, and starving, and sat down to reheated stew enthusiastically.

Maybe the healer had had a point, or at least a fraction of one. She'd taken to walking more and longer, sometimes following Griselda far afield on her hunts and sometimes making her way alone.

But, it had been nearly the whole three weeks, and she hadn't developed a hobby, hadn't figured out what she was supposed to be learning, and hadn't gained very much weight, mostly due to long walks and a vigorous early spring cleaning of her flat. She could call December 'early' for spring, right?

And here she was at the foot of the walkway to the Burrow, which was going to be awkward beyond words, but it was Christmas Eve, and both Harry and Arthur had told her on different checking up visits she was expected, besides the more formal written invitation from Molly. She couldn't just not attend. They'd been her other family--her main family--for a long time. 

And Arthur had come to her flat, for heaven's sake, which was just odd and worrying with all the awkward pats on the shoulder and inexplicable questions about small electronics she couldn't even describe, much less identify the workings of. She couldn't just ignore his effort.

Besides. Ron might beg off and show up in the morning instead, right?

She started up the lane, leaving footprints in the thin layer of untouched snow; everyone else must have arrived by Floo, but she didn't feel comfortable just tumbling in like that any more. She felt intrusive and weird with a family event, rather than just the occasional Sunday brunch. Not that she'd been to brunch in six weeks, and not that coming in the door was a great deal better. But she was here now and might as well go in. If it was horrible, she could always leave, and if it wasn't, well, probably this sort of thing was what she was supposed to be doing, if Healer Clementine and her nosy questions were to be taken for anything.

She lifted her hand to knock, but the door opened before she struck it, leaving her pawing at the air before Charlie's chest. "Oh. Hi. Wait, when did you get in?"

"Last Thursday, hello to you, too, and I'm on leave. I saw you coming." He tilted his head toward the window near the door. "Also..." Instead of moving back and letting her in, he came out onto the top step and lowered his voice. "Also, I think my parents, who have never been through a break-up ever, may not have a lot of sense of why it would be awkward for you to be here, so I was watching in order to mention Ron brought a date before you walk in."

"A date? Is it, um. Never mind. Not my concern, is it?"

"Blonde, so tall, fascinated by his every word." He shrugged. "I mean, I don't know if it's as awkward as I can imagine it would be, but I do know that on the two occasions on which I've had a relationship end--not that yours and Ron's is _over_ , exactly, is it? I mean, over, in the sense of the type, but you aren't ever going to not be connected through Harry and all. Anyway. The first time I saw her with someone else, it didn't feel very good. And Harry says you've been feeling a bit under the weather in the first place, so, warning."

Hermione shook her head. "Damn. And that's not Larissa, so he must have moved on. Well, thanks for the warning. Of course, if I don't go in, they'll just send someone to check on me or something."

"Joy of big families: there's always someone to run have a look. Well, so come on in, but if you want, just, I don't know, scratch your nose or something and I'll create a distraction so you can make a run for it. Or you could not go in and I could volunteer for go-checking duty, if you want. But I can't guarantee anything."

"No, I'd better just make my hellos, keep it short, and get out."

He nodded. "Let me get you a drink. Preference?"

"Something numbing but not utterly stupefying? I'd rather not say anything insane due to a bloody drink loosening my tongue."

He grinned. "Makes sense. Come on, look in the cabinet with me. We'll fix you right up."

She shook her head, wondering whether it wouldn’t be better to just go home, leave a note, and then go hide in Outer Moldavia until a week from Tuesday. 

Maybe there would be Yetis. Or vampires. Something easier to face than a houseful of Weasleys and fascinated blondes.

\--

It hadn't even been forty minutes since Hermione had arrived home when there was a knock at the door. She stopped in the middle of pulling her jumper over her head and pulled it back down--who would be stopping by at nine at night on Christmas Eve?

She opened the door and frowned. "Charlie? Did I leave something? Or... well, I'm sure whatever it is, it could have waited."

He brushed past her. "You didn't forget anything." He held up a brown paper bag. "Can I come in?"

"You're already in," she pointed out.

"I know. But it'd be rude not to ask, right?"

She shook her head and closed the door. "What's in the bag?"

He reached into it and pulled out a flask of whisky. "Same stuff from earlier, and when you left it seemed as though you were upset. I thought maybe you'd like someone to talk to."

"I'm not sure how my ex-brother-in-law put himself in charge of my therapy. And I shouldn't have another drink--the ones you made earlier were numbing, as advertised."

"Good! I like to be reliable."

She chuckled. "I'm fine, Charlie, I really am. It's just a little hard, being around, well, you know."

"Ron and his flavor of the week?"

She wasn't sure how they'd wound up in the kitchen getting out glasses for his whisky, but she handed them over anyway. "He does seem to be moving through the various steps of relationship acquisition at a pace I can't quite conceive of."

He took both in one hand--rough hands, not at sprawling as Ron's but big and sturdy, and why in the world was she focusing on his hands?--and splashed a bit into each, then set down the flask and handed her one back. "Well, he's looking at his options. But yeah, it's awkward, especially because he doesn't seem to know what he's looking for."

She followed him back into the sitting room, sipping at the whisky in her glass as she sat down on the couch. "I don't think it's wrong he's looking. I mean, it's a little soon, but then, he was the one who initially wanted out of the marriage, so he's known for a while, right? Longer than I have. I just wish he weren't so obviously and blatantly bed-hopping where I can see it. I mean. Katherine Waller? Really? She was kind of possessive of him in the way that means they're, you know. And Larissa up until a couple of weeks ago, at least."

"He's a guy. Guys are idiots, when their dicks get involved."

"How crude."

"Yeah, but true. Plus, he dumped you, having known you and had a thing with you since before he figured out girls had tits in the first place--yes, I know, also crude; live with it--so he doesn't quite know how to get that kind of thing again. So he hasn't figured out how to actually get himself a new relationship, and he's going with maximum velocity and minimum deliberation."

"Yeah, he does seem to be moving along. And doing fine at it."

"Nah, all he's doing fine at is getting _laid_. Not really the same. That girl today? Not to put too fine a point on it, but she wouldn't survive the first round of an intellectual challenge against a rock. A really blocky thick one."

Hermione snorted just as she sipped her whisky again, and coughed. "I wouldn't ever have said that," she said, "but I can't really disagree."

"Anyway. Like I said. He's just trying to figure out what he wants. You?"

"Me what?"

"Trying to figure out what you want?"

"Apparently not, as I'm not fucking half the men in Britain." 

"I wasn't, actually, asking that. Though it's not a bad idea."

"Somehow I doubt it would make me feel better."

"Not in the way you want, but I don't know, good old-fashioned orgasms probably wouldn't hurt."

"Um. I suppose… Was that some sort of, um...proposition?"

Charlie shook his head and laughed, filling his glass one more time and holding out the flask until she took it and set it aside. "No, not that I find you repulsive or anything, but my purpose in coming here wasn't to do any propositioning. In any case, enough about my brother's pathetic sex life. What I came here to do was cheer you up, and this seems like a topic destined to fail us, in that regard."

"You don't have to cheer me up, Charlie." Hermione could feel the effects of the whisky on top of the earlier drinks; her face felt warm and her toes were gently buzzy. She slouched slightly, letting her head fall back a bit. "It's not like you have any responsibility toward me."

"Yeah, but I like you. But usually you're full of ideas and stories and things, at these family events."

"I am?"

"At least, when you talk to me. But beyond that first bit at the door, you were damn quiet, and I didn't get much of a chance to talk to you anyway. And it seems a little unlikely you'll be coming back around soon, so I thought I'd come to you. Plus, my mother is a little smothering."

"Ah, so I'm a convenient excuse to get out."

"Busted." His grin was undiminished, and he added, "But only a little. I really did wonder what you've been up to."

Hermione shook her head. "A whole bloody lot of nothing, is what. I'm on medically-enforced leave from the office--"

"What? Wait, I only heard you were a bit off, not on _enforced leave_. That must be completely maddening. What's wrong? And should you be drinking that? Uh, sorry, not to pry."

"It's fine. No, I shouldn't be, but not because of that. And, wait, I'm sure Ron knows about the whole bloody mess, so it's a little surprising he didn't mention it."

"No it's not. He and I didn't discuss much, either, what with him having his lap full most of the time."

"Point. It's nothing, though. I just kept forgetting to eat and the healers thought I was working too much and too hard."

"They don't decide that unless you really, really are. I mean, there are whole departments that are on-call at all sorts of odd hours, so they know weird hours sometimes just happen, in government."

"Okay, so the forgetting to eat was maybe more the problem. I kept sort of fainting at work. And maybe once here, though they don't know about that one. But I'm better now. And I'm bored. I'm supposed to be developing a hobby, at which I'm failing dreadfully."

"No Quidditch for you?"

"I don't fly."

"I know. I was teasing. What kind of hobby are you supposed to be developing? Needlecraft?"

Hermione crinkled her nose. "I suppose I could try. I do know how to knit, but I don't really want to knit hats for everyone I know, and my other sewing skills are a bit crap."

"You can knit me a hat if you want, but surely they had some suggestions."

"Not really. Just, get a life, basically. And stop thinking about cases all the time."

"So they sent you home with nothing to do and told you not to think about the main thing you usually think about?"

"It doesn't sound very sensible at all, described like that."

"I didn't think so, either. Like I said, maddening."

"God, I'm _so_ glad to learn there's at least one other person in the world who thinks so. Everyone else keeps telling me to be _sensible_ about it, which is possibly the least sensible thing they could possibly say."

Charlie laughed. "I'm not good at resting, either. So, what _have_ you been doing with yourself?"

"Carefully remembering to have lunch. Reading. Walking. Walking a lot, actually. Somehow I doubt either of those things is going to qualify as an adequate diversion, though, when I go back to see the healer in a couple of days. They're going to want something I'm less likely to sort of fit in around the edges and let get pushed aside."

"Probably. Though I sort of think that's the nature of hobbies."

"True."

She shook her head. "Yes, so to sum up, I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing. I've read every book in the library on the topic of ulcers and stress responses."

"Ulcers? See, that's not only forgetting to eat."

"Mostly, though. I mean, it's the same issue: stress and not taking good care of myself. But I'll do better. I have reminders stuck on my mirror and whatnot, and I'll just have to schedule lunch, is all."

Charlie nodded. "That might help some, I suppose. Well, maybe you _should_ take up a sport. I know when I'm pissed off I like to go work up a sweat, and it does seem to help."

She shook her head and shrugged. "Not much for athletics."

"Well, you'll think of something. It's not that far from walking to running, anyway, so I suppose you could take up running for sport. How much longer have you to chafe irritably whilst you wait?"

"If I can convince them I'm really better, they might let me do a bit of part-time work from home next week."

"Good luck with that."

"Thanks." She leaned forward and set her empty glass on the little table. "I'm going to need it, since otherwise by the next time you see me it'll probably be through a small window in a padded cell."

"A what?"

"Don't they have those, at St. Mungo's? Muggle psychiatric hospitals, I don't know, maybe not any more but used to have, anyway, special rooms for people who had totally lost touch and couldn’t manage not to hurt themselves. Padded walls because--"

"Oh! Wow. You'd think a cushioning charm, though I suppose Muggles can't really choose that route. Right. Well, you're not going to go quite that colorfully mad in the next few days, are you?"

"At this point, I might do."

"I have confidence. You're going to figure it out."

"Thanks."

"So. Want to hear a story about a dragon?"

She grinned and drew up one knee to set her chin on. "Sure."

He turned to face her on the couch, leaning back against the far arm and pulling his closer knee up onto the cushion as well as he started his story.

It was relaxing, listening to him talk about a fairly dangerous-sounding series of events related to moving the eggs of a particularly stubborn and apparently very intelligent dragon with the unlikely name of Daisy; she let her mind wander and thought it was too bad that this couldn't count as a hobby.

"Did she behave the next time?"

"Fuck if I know. She was still having to be restrained from moving the damned things back the day they hatched, and she hasn't been bred again."

"Stubborn, then."

He shrugged. "Stubborn's okay. I'm occasionally a little bit bull-headed myself, you know?" He turned his head to look at the clock on the wall. "And possibly I should be leaving you alone now. It's late." He stood and tugged down the hem of his pullover, caught up in his belt.

"I'm glad you came by," Hermione said, standing as well to walk with him to the door.

"Me, too. Like I said, Mum's smothering me a little. Actually, I'm home for a while--maybe after you see the healers later in the week, we can find a means of non-boredom together? Maybe a visit to a museum? I bet the Lester has something interesting."

Hermione chewed on her lip. "Maybe. It would probably help convince them to let me work a little if I could say I was doing something with a friend."

Charlie flung out an arm dramatically, placing the other hand over his heart. "You only want me for my healer-convincing potential! Woe is me!"

Hermione laughed, realizing she'd done so quite a bit in the past hour. "Okay, I won't mention it then. Unless I have to. You'll be my, what's the word?"

"Last resort?"

"Well, yes, but I was thinking there's a word in card games or something. A card you're hiding so everyone thinks you can't win but you can?"

"Excellent. I'm a possibly-useful bit of secret stiff paper." Charlie smirked and opened the door. "When's the appointment?"

"Thursday."

"See you Thursday, then. Owl if you can't."

She closed the door behind him and went back to the couch to pick up their glasses and take them to the sink. She really did feel a good deal better than she had earlier, and it was nice to have plans to do something.

\--

"That bad, eh?"

Hermione hadn't even seen Charlie standing there; she was walking automatically to where she was supposed to be going after a thoroughly frustrating meeting with the healer. She sighed. "She said I can't go back to work yet."

"Did she give any specifics?" He fell into step next to her, steering her slightly as he walked along. "I assume there must be certain things she wants you to do."

"I'm just not developing a life of my own very well. I told her I had plans for this afternoon, which she seemed pleased about--she told me to tell her all about it next week, which is honestly the only reason I'm here."

"What? It's not my remarkable charm from which you are unable to stray?"

Hermione shot him a look, but he seemed unfazed.

"Well, then I suppose we'd best get to it. Come on. Oh, and I looked it up; the phrase you wanted was something inexplicably called an 'ace in the hole.' Anyway. They've changed the display at the Lester just this week, so I know you haven't already seen it." He took her elbow and tugged gently, directing her to turn onto Durham Road as she looked at him.

"You looked it up?"

"What? I was curious."

"Still, I can't believe you went looking on purpose."

He shrugged. "It was easy. Muggle slang book in a shop in Exeter." He glanced over at her. "I _do_ read, you know."

"I didn't think you were… I didn't mean to insult you."

"You didn't. Just saying. Anyway, the exhibit." He pointed toward the museum, still far enough up that she couldn't see the posters.

"What are they displaying now? Last time I looked, they had an Egypt thing."

"Egypt?" Charlie raised his eyebrows. "Right, that was like three visits ago, for me, so it has to have been something like four or five years. Three visits to the museum, not visits home."

"Really? That long?"

"Really."

"Wow. Well, I knew I wasn't very attentive to this sort of thing."

"You don't say. Anyway, now it's on Russian magical art, with a focus on some of the charm-based work of Nikolai Cherkhov. Do you know of him?"

"No. What sort of charms did he specialize in?"

Charlie grinned. "I guess you could say entertainment. His art is largely what could loosely be described as erotic, but--"

"You're taking me to a porn show?"

"What? No! Not exactly. No, don't freak out. First of all, I didn't know this was what was here--hadn't looked yet when we talked before. Second, it's not actually porn. I mean, it can be, but the charm part is what's kind of fascinating. He made images that are in the eye of the beholder. Like, if I look at an image of a milkmaid, and I see her as wholesome, then the erotic acts she performs for me will be very different than what you see if you see milkmaids as whores."

"Why would I see milkmaids as whores?" Hermione frowned. "I'd think after milking cows at the crack of dawn they'd want a nap more than they'd want sex."

Charlie chuckled. "Fine, so you see milkmaids as hard workers, so the erotic image you might see for her would involve, I don't know, sleepy early morning sex or some sort of pampering or I don't know what. There's this whole field of like, art history and psychology? I don't know if there's a name for the field. Psychohistory?"

"I think that's a word used in, hm. Something I read a long time ago."

"Magical?"

"No--from my father's library. When I was a child I'd borrow from anywhere for something to read. Some of what I read was dreadful, but this was some famous weird book involving predicting the future. Not really my thing."

"I see. Well, like I said, don't know if there's a name. Oh, turn left."

Hermione glanced to the left at a stretch of brick wall. "There's nothing here."

Charlie shook his head. "This part of London is mixed, Hermione. There's another entrance on the Wizarding side, which is probably how you've been here before, but this one's hidden."

"Oh. Right." Hermione turned and carefully focused on the wall. Sure enough, there was a shadowed entrance there. She stepped through it and into the lobby of the Lester. Charlie was right behind her.

"Wow," he said, glancing around. She thought she rather agreed; the place had been decorated, as usual, according to the display they had up, which meant that someone's idea of erotica was the theme. Black and crimson velvet and gleaming golden trim were in evidence all over the entryway, despite that what Hermione could see from here of the actual display seemed a great deal less bordello-like than the decor would suggest.

She turned. "What does the art look like, to you?"

He shook his head. "No way. You'll just go to the library and look up the interpretations and then come back and tell me I'm a pervert."

"So we can't talk about what we see here?"

"Sure we can, in general. Though I think I'll make you go first."

"Fine." She handed the girl behind the glass a Galleon and waited for her change, glancing up at the price list to make sure it was correct, then waited for Charlie to pay for himself. As soon as they were inside, she tugged him along to the first piece. Which was thirty yards away. "Why are the works so far apart?"

"Probably for a bit of privacy if people want to discuss things. Though, staff will circulate. One of the things in the psychological literature is the issue of how to handle people whose erotic images are, ah, abnormal."

"Like what?"

"Like if you looked at this girl--" he pointed at the canvas, at a young woman wearing a rather revealing blouse and a too-short skirt for her apparent job as a librarian-- "and saw erotic images about bleeding raw books or something. You don't, do you?"

Hermione glanced back at the sexy librarian, then blushed as the woman sat down at a table with her back to the canvas and pulled one of the quills out from where they were stuck into her messy knot of hair. She was watching erotic art of a librarian making a list? "No, no blood. She's writing."

"Yeah? What's she writing? Because I've got something rather indecent involving using the stacks for support."

"Oh! Um." Hermione squinted at the list. "It's not a list; it's dialogue. Oh! She's writing ...erotica."

"Innnteresting."

"Shut up."

"What? I see a sexy librarian snogging a bloke like mad, hair coming loose, knocking books to the floor all over everywhere. You see a sexy librarian--she is sexy, isn't she? I mean, you know, hair all pinned up haphazardly, blouse unbuttoned to here, skirt..." He gestured at his thigh, and she nodded. "Anyway, you see a librarian and think she might write smutty stories. I guess we both think librarians are possibly not very staid at all."

"...Right." Hermione blushed hotter and watched the dialogue continue getting longer for a moment, then started for the next display.

Charlie trailed along behind her from one work to the next, occasionally commenting. As they came back around the hall to the start, he asked, "So, I haven't seen his work except in books before. It's kind of fascinating, and possibly a bit more effective than ought to be allowed in a public display. Though, I haven't seen anything extremely explicit; maybe they have dampening charms in place or something, you think?"

"Or maybe they separated them into categories." Hermione pointed at the rope across the stairs, with the little sign indicating no children on the upper level. "I imagine they put ones that are really, um, you know, up there." 

"Oh, maybe. Uh, we could go up there, but I don't know if you want to."

Hermione shook her head. "It might be kind of weird, don't you think? I mean, if we were together, maybe it would be fun, but we're... what are we? We're no longer family."

He shook his head. "No word for us, then. But we're still family, Hermione. I don't really think that's a status one loses." He walked with her back to the lobby. "So. Tea before we part ways?"

"Mum still smothering you?"

"A little."

Hermione chuckled. "Yes, I'd like that, but also, this was actually kind of fun and I did manage to forget I wasn't at work for, what, maybe eight minutes in a row at one point."

"Success!" Charlie walked backward ahead of her out into the sunny Wizarding side of the museum. "Scones on me, then."

"You don't have to pay for my food, Charlie."

"Course I don't. However, I figure it's a fair price for sending me home to Mum well-fed and in a good mood."

"I put you in a good mood? I hardly think that's about me."

"Either way, I'm buying the scones. What do you think? Callahan's, or that new place down the end of the block?"

"New place. I do like trying new things. And I'll buy my own scone." 

Charlie rolled his eyes, but said, "Fine. You buy your own scone. I'll get the tea."

Hermione snorted, but didn't argue.

\--

It had turned out the place they'd planned to go wasn't open, and they'd turned instead into a funny little pub that was bustling with activity. Tea had been easy enough to acquire, but a table had been out of the question until one opened up, so they sat toward one end of the bar sharing a little plate of biscuits and sipping at their tea. Hermione's back was to the far wall.

"I've never even heard of this place," she said after a while. "Seems quite popular, though."

Charlie nodded. "Not your kind of place. I've been here a couple of times, though certainly not in the middle of the afternoon. I didn't really expect it to be busy like this at this hour."

"Oh?"

He ran his tongue over his teeth before answering. "It's kind of a, uh, the kind of place you go to find an evening of companionship. Not as blatant as some of the clubs, of course, and I mean, if you look around it's not totally without other charms. Don't worry; no one's likely to give you a hard time."

"Well, I shouldn't think so. I hardly present the sort of picture that any bloke would just--"

Charlie rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. I meant, because you're clearly in the midst of talking to someone already, and it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume you therefore didn't need any chatting up."

Hermione shook her head. "If you say so. Not that I'd have the first idea what to do with anyone chatting me up in the first place--I don't exactly have a great deal of experience that's more recent than, oh, 1996 or so."

"I imagine what you'd do would depend rather heavily on what you wanted--I mean, you might go home with them, get a room..." 

"Charlie!"

"Well!" He chuckled. "It is rather the point of your average meat market to find someone to get naked with."

Hermione sighed. "I don't think I could do that. I mean, I miss sex kind of a lot--er. All right, this conversation is a little odd. I think I'm under the influence of the exhibit still."

Charlie shrugged. "Right, well, then let's talk about something else. Ummm read any good books lately?"

She laughed. "All I've been reading, and according to the healer this does not constitute getting a bloody hobby, is literature on stress, health, and nutrition."

"Learning anything good?"

"Actually, kind of a lot. I don't know why they don't teach some of this material at Hogwarts."

"There are a couple of things they don't cover well there. I mean, literature in general, don't you think?"

"Good point."

"Maybe you should develop a hobby of studying the Hogwarts curriculum and suggesting revision. Or I don't know, see about getting a seat on the Board of Governors."

"Yes, I'm sure that woman would think that was an excellent way not to incur undue stress."

"There is that. Well, still. It's something to think about."

"It _would_ be interesting. I don't know how you'd even begin to institute a new program, though. You'd have to not only add the lessons to the timetable, but arrange for OWLs and NEWTs and work out who'd administer them and what the standards would be..." She nibbled on a cookie. "In any case, that sounds like a perfectly impossible task on top of any other regular job, doesn't it?"

"Maybe. Still, it might be a good hobby, sort of tinkering with the information without any specific intent of doing anything with it right now. Something to use your brain for, you know?"

"I think it's bizarre that you're the first person to suggest a hobby that doesn't make me want to throw things. Impractical, in conjunction with my job, but at least interesting."

He grinned. "I _told_ you I read. I'm not _entirely_ without a brain in my head, you know."

"Didn't think you were; else you wouldn't be the one realizing Christmas would be weird, or the one knowing about art museums."

"Just so we're clear." He peered at her teacup. "You're out of tea. Ready to go?"

Hermione looked at the cup, too. "I think so. Assuming you weren't planning to stay here and find someone to get naked with."

"No, not today." He winked. "Maybe next time."

"I still think the idea of going to a pub for that is kind of weird," she said as she stood. "I mean, obviously lots of people do it; I just can't quite see it. But then, Ron and I had a lot of history, so it never came up."

"But a lot of people do it wrong, too," he said thoughtfully as they made their way back out and along the street.

"Wrong, how?"

"Wrong, in that they expect something they're unlikely to find that way. I mean, it's not _impossible_ ; I'm sure that sometimes it works out that the person you hook up with is also someone with whom you have a lot in common. Still, I've heard a number of stories about complaints about only meeting shallow people that way, and I don't quite know why there's an expectation of depth, you know?"

"True. Do you really think it would be possible to actually introduce whole disciplines at Hogwarts?"

"Is this a hint you don't want to talk about casual sex any more?"

She shrugged. "I don't have anything to contribute to the conversation, is all. I've never had any. And why do we keep coming back to that?"

"Never? See, that might be worth fixing--not with expectations of depth or anything, just, you know, skin. But you're right, we keep coming back. Maybe you're obsessed."

" _Me_?" She crinkled her nose and poked at his arm with one finger as they turned the corner. "You, maybe."

" _You_ brought it up this time, asking if I had plans. But, fine. So, what are you thinking? About Hogwarts, I mean."

She pursed her lips. "I don't know. I suppose you'd need to come up with a whole curriculum, at least several years' worth. If I were going to make suggestions, I'd put most of it in place of Divination, I guess. Not to say Divination isn't okay as an elective or something, but, hm." She frowned and chewed on her lip until he took her elbow to stop her when it was time to turn toward home. "Oh! Sorry. Lousy company, I am."

"I don't mind. I'm pretty used to silence, you know. It's fine." He stumbled slightly over an uneven place in the pavement as he looked at her.

She reached instinctively to catch him, though he didn't need it; he found his feet again quickly and shook his head as he glanced back at where he'd tripped. "You all right?" she asked.

"Yeah, I think so." He reached down and gripped his right knee through his denims, lifting his foot off the ground to bend and flex a few times. "Yeah, fine. Come on." He took a few steps, then said, "So, would you go with all Wizarding authors? Or d'you think a mix of Muggle and Wizard?"

She tilted her head. "You know, it might be possible to do a mix and merge the class in with some of the Muggle Studies material. You know, make it about cultures and ideas? Like, I don't know, someone like Shelley, for Muggle ideas about life, death, monstrosity, or Swift--have you read _Gulliver_?"

"Yes, why?"

"I was just wondering; I read it as a child, before I had any idea about magic, but I wonder if he was one of those who passed as a Muggle, but had some experiences to draw on, you know?"

"Could be. I bet there are a lot of places where the two worlds met up."

"Probably."

"What about…" He started listing other likely readings in no particular order, older and newer, British and not, as they walked, and she started throwing in her own. By the time they'd arrived at her block of flats, Hermione had half a mental list, and was beginning to wonder whether this was actually something she could enjoy considering.

\--

There wasn't any coffee in the flat.

This would have been a great deal less irritating to Hermione had she remembered earlier than right when she wanted to make a cup after supper. It was New Year's Eve, and she didn't want to go out looking for any; she intended to spend the evening listening to the wireless and writing a letter to her parents. It was past time to get on with telling them about her situation.

Far past. She had no idea how she was even going to explain the delay, or how to decide where to begin, but it had to be done.

But first, she wanted a cup of coffee; she suspected the writing was going to be difficult and she didn't want to start it unfortified.

Damn it. And of course, taking this as an excuse to not start would be juvenile, and going out remained unappealing.

She was still glaring at the empty coffee tin when the Floo flared. Green light reflected off the refrigerator and a voice called out. "Hermione?"

She looked around the corner and into the living room. "Charlie?"

"Hi. Can I come through?"

"How did you get my Floo address?"

"I have my ways. Is that a no?"

"No, no. Come on through; I was just surprised."

He stepped into the room and brushed off soot. "Hi. Plans for the evening?"

"None." She frowned. "You aren't, um, babysitting me, are you? I mean, I'll be all right."

"No, and I know that. Actually, once again you are saving me from my mother."

"Why are you still here? In Britain, I mean. You haven't stayed this long in years, unless I've missed something."

"Oh, just taking some time off. And I do love Mum, and playing with Bill's girls and whatnot. Just, in smaller doses than the smothering works out to."

Hermione nodded. "Right. Also, actually when I said none, that was possibly a lie, so before you decide I'm saving you from anything, be aware that I'm going to be a great deal of no fun this evening. I'm planning to drink coffee and write a long-overdue letter to _my_ mother. Or I was, until I realized I was completely out of coffee."

"The horror!" 

"I know. I haven't told them about the divorce. Or the time off."

"Wow. Yeah, I imagine that's a little overdue, then. Want help?"

"That _can't_ be more fun than hanging about with your mother."

"Maybe not, but at least it would be useful. Unless I'd be in the way."

"No, probably I need someone to kick my arse into getting the damn thing done. I've been putting it off for weeks."

"One arse-kicking, ready and waiting." Charlie went past her into the kitchen. "Well, no coffee, but you do have chocolate."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that."

He grinned. "Here, you sit down and stare at your blank parchment for a few minutes, and I'll be right back." He started toward the door.

"What? Where are you going?"

"Just a quick nip over to the market. Back in ten." He went out and closed the door behind him, leaving Hermione to stare puzzled at her empty living room. After a moment, she shrugged and went to the desk to get parchment and quill ready.

Probably she should write in Muggle pen, so as not to further emphasize the Wizarding aspects of her life, but she wanted the familiarity, and at this point, the quill felt right in her hand.

She was still staring at the page, as predicted, when Charlie returned.

"How's the letter coming?"

"Not."

"Right. Okay if I use your kitchen?"

"It's got Muggle appliances."

"I'll try not to blow anything up," he called, having already gone on around the wall. "No, don't fret. I have actually used a Muggle stovetop to scramble my eggs before. Once. What's the first thing you reckon you should tell your parents?"

"That's the trouble. I don't really know how to lead in. They're still in Australia, so that I haven't seen them is one thing, but I've talked to them five times since we decided to get divorced, and three times since the papers were filed."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure Mum would skin me. But then, I haven't had this big a secret to keep since I applied for my internship in the first place. Which Bill, that git, told her about anyway."

Hermione chewed on the end of her quill. "At least I don't have that problem."

"See? Small blessings, you know? You're not allergic to mint or anything, are you?"

"Uh, no?"

"Good. So maybe you should start with how you've been thinking about how frustrating it is to be separated from family."

"Yeah, but I don't want them to think I'm saying I blame them for staying where they are, which I don't. I put them there." Hermione looked up as a mug--an enormous mug, not one of hers--was put next to her. "What's this?"

"It's chocolate, though not that dry stuff you had. Real stuff, with milk and bitter chocolate and sugar. Well, and mint liqueur because if we're drinking chocolate on New Year's Eve, we need to be able to toast with it."

She raised her eyebrows, but picked up the mug and took a drink. "Charlie!"

"What?"

"First of all, this has to be more than chocolate, milk, and sugar, because this is _ridiculously_ good."

Charlie mimed a silly deep bow from where he was sitting on the couch. "I'm a man of many talents. Also, a couple things, but not much. I'm just that good, though I did melt the chocolate magically because waiting for it to melt is a pain. Second?"

"What?"

"You said that was first. What's second?"

"Oh. Second, you don't have to keep me company until midnight. I mean, don't you want to go out or something?"

He shrugged. "We'll see when the time comes."

She watched him for a minute, then nodded. "Right." She took another sip. "This really is good."

"There's enough alcohol in there to notice; don't drink it too fast."

"Where'd the mug come from?" She picked up the quill she'd put down when she took up the drink. 

"Same place as the rest of the stuff. And I think you don't have to make them feel bad about staying. Just, you know, how as you age you find yourself thinking about these things. That's pretty much universally true for people who have remotely healthy relationships with their parents, after all."

"Can't I just put a spell on the letter so when they open it they automatically know the whole story without me having to tell them?"

"God, wouldn't that be great? If you could just have your parents know things without having to sit through the getting pissed off part? I could have sent my mother a letter causing her to have _always_ been aware of the flaming dragon on my arse--"

"You have a flaming dragon on your arse?"

"Maybe. Or, at least, partly. I certainly recall my mother being completely outraged at learning about it, anyway."

"Were you of age?"

"Technically. I was eighteen, but still in school, so in her rather firm opinion, she should have had to give permission."

Hermione grinned. "She send a Howler?"

"Not _a_ Howler. More like eight of them. It was insane. Percy pitched an enormous fit. Two, actually; one at me, and one at her, for creating all this negative attention." Charlie pointed at her still-blank parchment. "Dear Mum and Dad. It's New Year's Eve, and I'm thinking about life and changes, and it seems like a good time to rectify the fact that there have been some changes in my life I haven't told you about, mostly because they're the sorts of changes it's difficult to put into writing."

"Oh, that's actually good. And true, which doesn't hurt. But my mother will understand about how writing things down makes them real. Actually, when I was maybe five she explained to me about how making a list made tasks concrete, so…" She put the quill on the page and started writing, next looking up seven paragraphs later to find Charlie grinning and watching her. 

"See?" He said. "You just needed to start."

"Yeah. It's actually not bad. I think." She bit her lip. "Would you mind terribly reading it over for sense?"

He held out his hand, so she stood and brought it to him, then went back for her cooled half-mug of chocolate, and sat down on the other end of the couch.

Charlie looked at the letter for a minute, then patted his chest pocket and pulled out a pair of glasses, unfolding them to put on his face. He glanced over. "No comments."

"What? I've never seen them before, but they're a good look on you. But no, no comments here."

"Good." He read through the letter quickly. "Well, I wouldn't be irritated to receive it, in their place, but I'm not them."

"It seems reasonable?"

"Are _they_ pretty level-headed?"

"Usually. Still a bit prickly about magic, though. Since, you know."

"I can imagine. They're your parents, though; they have to be sensible. I'm sure it'll be fine." He handed back the page and said, "Maybe you should transfigure it to look more Muggle. As a nod, you know?"

She blinked. "I'd thought I should write it with Muggle implements, but the quill is more comfortable. It never occurred to me to transfigure it. You really _do_ have a brain in there, huh?"

He folded his glasses back up and put them in his pocket. "I try to get it some exercise at least once a week. Now. Horrible chore done, you want to go see if we can find some fireworks for midnight?"

She glanced at the clock. "Wow. It's not even ten. I expected to be fretting over that for hours." She shrugged. "I don't know, do you like fireworks?"

"No, sudden bursts of flame freak me out." His expression was perfectly deadpan, but the little pause just before gave him away. Still, she couldn't help but play along. 

"You must have kept the therapist at the colony quite busy all these years, then."

He snorted. "Yes, we do keep a therapist on-staff," he said lightly. "Because being well-adjusted is something all wizards who make their livings chasing enormous angry flying lizards take as the highest priority."

"Obviously. If we're going out, I should change," she said. "Uh, I mean, I assume we're not going, for instance, to whatever fireworks there are at the Burrow, in which case denims would probably be safest anyway."

"Nah," he said. "But denims are fine anyway. Come on. You're fine the way you are."

She shrugged and put away her quill and ink, setting aside the letter to post later. "Where are we going?"

"Trust me?"

"Generally, sure; however, as I recall, you aren't that fond of Apparating."

"Yeah, I know." He pulled a shrunken broom out of his pocket. "Hence why I asked. As I recall--and as you said like three days ago--you aren't all the fond of flying."

She wrinkled her nose and considered saying no, but when she opened her mouth, she found herself saying instead, "I'm supposed to be trying new things, right? I think that includes re-trying old things."

"Good." He went to the door. "Disillusion us?"

She pulled her wand from her back pocket and tapped each of them on the head with it. "Done."

He opened the door and engorged his broom as they walked down the stairs and to the street, then swung his leg over. "Your carriage awaits."

She shook her head. "If you drop me, I will absolutely haunt you, you know."

"I'm pretty sure that's the most unnecessary threat ever issued. Ready?" He kicked off the ground and up fast, but surprisingly, it wasn't so bad. By the time they landed outside a bustling pub in the Wizarding district, far off the Diagon Alley area and at the opposite end from the Ministry, she'd concluded that maybe she'd been hasty, all those times she'd decided she hated flying. It was all right, if still not her favorite method of transport, when someone competent was controlling things and not being reckless, like Ron had been the three times he'd taken her flying.

Well no, that wasn't fair. He hadn't been being horrible; he just hadn't been specifically attentive to whether she felt really secure. Charlie was, and it mattered. Once he verified she was all right, they went up again, leisurely this time.

\--

They flew relatively aimlessly for quite a while, long enough that eventually Hermione cast a warming charm around them. "Cold?" Charlie asked in her ear.

"A little. Less than I'd have expected, actually, but still, it _is_ winter."

"True." He directed the broom down from where they'd been high in the sky, flying at a leisurely pace among London's old buildings and out into less crowded neighborhoods west of the city. "Better?" he asked eventually.

"It wasn't bad; the warming charm was all I needed. Though my arse is getting a little unhappy about the broom."

"Sorry. We'll land soon," he said. He turned them around in a wide curve, heading back into central London before landing. "Let's just walk until we find somewhere likely," he said. They stepped into a recessed doorway to end the Disillusionment charm and shrink Charlie's broom again, then wandered easily along the road among the groups and couples out for revelry.

The pub they eventually found was loud, full, and apparently a favorite spot for sport teams and university students, among others. "Why a Muggle pub?" she asked, once they were inside. That was a poor choice; the place was crowded and busy enough she could hardly hear herself.

Unsurprisingly, Charlie raised his eyebrows and pointed at his ear.

She stepped closer and went up on her toes to repeat the question. He caught her around the waist and kept her there to answer. "Because you can do whatever you want without worrying about people you know."

She pulled back and looked at him. "Like what?"

He shrugged. "Just saying. In case you want to experiment with skin and all."

"Unlikely. I don't really think that's my style."

"Kay." He turned and pulled her by the hand toward the very busy bar, ordering them each a drink and shortly handing her something pink and orange and sparkly. His own drink was much more ordinary-looking: smooth golden liquid over ice.

"What is this?" she asked as they moved somewhat out of the worst of the crowd.

"No idea. There's fruit and rum and something." 

"What if I'd rather have what you're having?"

He held out his glass. "Then we trade, course. Fair warning: mine's not any less potent."

She sipped at her pink stuff. "It's fizzy."

"Is that bad?"

"Not necessarily." She took another small sip, then a longer drink. "It's good, just a bit girly."

Charlie grinned and took a slug of his drink, then swiped hers and handed his over. "You're saying I'm drinking a girly drink?"

"Hey. No stealing my girly fizzy drink," she said, grinning and sipping at his. "Oh, look, there's a table."

"Good. You sit; I think our food's ready."

"You ordered food?"

He waved her toward the table and went back toward the bar to collect what turned out to be a couple of big sandwiches and an enormous basket of chips. "Yes, I ordered food; I wasn't trying to take you out and get you drunk."

"Just trying to get me to go home with someone." She took back her pink drink and handed back his.

"No, to give you an easy opportunity if you want it," he corrected. "I'm pretty sure I'm clear on the benefits of stupid easy rebound sex, you know?"

"I say again, not my style." She paused. "Um, though I guess if you meant to find someone here, I can get myself home, right?"

"Good to know." He grabbed a handful of chips and bit off the ends of a couple, wiping his greasy hand on a paper napkin. "I didn't get all this just for me."

She grinned and took one of the sandwiches. "Please tell me you're not a part of the 'making sure Hermione eats' brigade."

"Only in the sense I'm eating with you," he assured. "If you're not hungry, all you have to do is say. I trust you're not actually choosing not to eat to hurt yourself or some damn thing." He took an enormous bite of sandwich and then a couple more chips. "So, no cheap sex, huh?"

"It's fine, in principle. I mean, if I see someone who makes me drool, I'm not opposed to the idea. I just, you know, don't think I know how to go out for that express purpose."

Charlie nodded. "Then we'll have to find some other spontaneous thing for you to do."

"Why?"

"So you can tell the psychologist or whatever that you've been having fun being spontaneous."

Hermione frowned. "There's something seriously wrong with the notion of planning to be spontaneous for medical reasons. Also, what sort of spontaneous thing? Besides going out for New Year's unexpectedly."

"Learn to fly. Go to Paris to paint the Eiffel Tower. Get a tattoo."

"I'm not going to learn to fly, though it was okay with you, but still, not for me. I'm pretty sure if I painted the Eiffel Tower, the product would be routinely mistaken for an elephant or a ball of candy floss or both--"

Charlie snorted. "That bad, huh?"

"And I've never even considered getting a tattoo." She took another bite of her sandwich, following it with more pink fizzy drink. "If I did, I'd want to get something, I don't know. Not a book--I love books, but I don't need a tattoo of one--and not anything like a kitten or an otter."

"An _otter_? Why--"

"Patronus," she said a little more quietly.

Charlie grinned. "Mine's a koala. And no, none of my tattoos are koalas; I take your point."

"Don't you sort of have to know what the thing is in order to have it? How does any British wizard wind up with a koala--"

"I do read," he said. "We've been over this. Also, you know they're magical, right?"

"What?"

"They have this weird natural shielding trait. It's really too bad they don't adapt to anywhere else; Australian… they're sometimes used as good luck charms, of a sort."

"Not by hunting them, I hope?"

"No, the effect is rather ruined by death. Anyway, so I'd seen pictures."

"Huh. I had no idea. About koalas, I mean. But in any case, what _are_ your tattoos?"

"I'll show you some time," he said. "Some of them, anyway. But, uh, there's at least one I clearly can't display here."

She raised her eyebrows. "Because of its location? Wait, why am I quizzing you as to the location and design of your body decorations?"

"Because you're spontaneously curious?" He finished his sandwich. "See? Spontaneity is fun. And no, because it moves. Now. See anyone who makes you drool?"

It flashed through her mind that the real and true answer was probably yes, but since casual skin contact for kicks with her ex-husband's brother was probably a seriously terrible idea, Hermione shook her head.

"Too bad, that." He stood. "Come on. It's nearly a quarter to twelve, and if you're not going to go for any other kind of fireworks tonight, let's watch the Muggle show from somewhere up high."

She knew he was going to fly them into the air again, and tried to be ready for that, but in fact, while the method was broom transport, he landed them not two minutes later on the roof of a nondescript downtown skyscraper and sat with her on the edge of a metal mechanical box of some sort, facing the river.

"I figured you'd be all worried about the broom and therefore not appreciating the show," he said, scooting close and dropping another warming charm over both of them.

"It's maybe a little alarming that you've got all these things you know about me that for one thing Ron wouldn’t have thought of--and honestly, I don't hate Ron."

"No, I know," Charlie said. "I know because it wouldn’t be difficult for you to see him with someone else if you didn't actually care."

"It's not that I want him back," Hermione added quickly.

Charlie rolled his eyes. "Hermione, _I know_. You don't have to defend anything you say about him on either of those grounds. I know there isn't a single perfect person in my family, and I love them all and also get irritated with them all. And don't want to marry any of them."

"Not even Fleur?"

Charlie pursed his lips. "No, not even Fleur, who is with Bill partly because she and I had a lot of fun but didn't suit."

Hermione blinked. " _Seriously?_ Isn't that sort of weird?"

"We're over it," he said firmly. "It's not an issue, because I know she and Bill are good together, and they know she and I weren't. The first conversation after they got together was a little bit weird. Okay, maybe the first five or six conversations. Now, we're all good."

"Was that one of the ones that was why you knew I'd have a hard time last week?" Hermione frowned. "It seems longer than a week."

"It was, it does, and it's just as well, don't you think? I mean, I'm glad for him that he had her, when he got all torn up, and I'm glad for you that I had the thought, you know? Oh, oi, look." He pointed to where the fireworks display was starting over the water. "It's midnight."

She watched the colorful explosions for a few minutes, then turned to find him watching her. "What?"

"Nothing. We should have brought our chocolate, though, if we were going to toast with it."

She shrugged. "We can pretend." She held out her hand around an imaginary cup. "To 2005?"

"To 2005." He clinked his own imaginary glass against hers and mimed a drink, then dropped his head a little to brush his lips over hers.

She kissed him briefly, then again a bit less briefly, her lips opening against his mouth as his tongue slid into hers. 

It was still a bad idea, and she knew it, so before anything really weird could happen, she pulled back only to find him doing the same. "Um."

"Um, nothing, Hermione. Nothing wrong, nothing bad, I started it, and the only thing is, I don't actually want to be an experiment. So." He stood, grinned like nothing was wrong, and put out his hand to catch his broom. "I should get you home."

She closed her eyes for a minute. "Sorry."

"No, not sorry, no sorries." He waited until she opened her eyes again. "Didn't I just say I started it? I didn't say I wasn't willing. Just that I wasn't willing to be only how you get some skin on skin contact."

She frowned. "I _said_ that wasn't my style."

"So you're ready to move on into something else? Because something else, I'd be interested in, quite a lot. I'm not asking because I'm trying to push. I'm saying, maybe not now, and we'll see if later happens. Also, if you go blaming yourself or some damn thing, I'm going to think you've got more damage than you think you do. Or than I think you do, come to that; I don't actually think there's anything wrong with you. Now come on; it's late and you've had a busy week."

"Out of curiosity, and I'm not saying I am, but what if I argued and said I _was_ ready?"

Charlie grinned. "If I believed you, we wouldn't be talking still." He swung his leg over the broom. "I meant it when I said you wouldn't have any trouble finding anyone to pass the time with."

She considered that for a few seconds, then got on the broom in front of him and leaned back against his chest. "Thanks, maybe."

"Maybe?"

She shrugged. "I think you're right, more or less, but that doesn't mean I have to like it."

"I see." He kicked up into the air and circled for a few minutes, then flew her back to her flat and saw her to the door.

As she fumbled with her key in the lock, he shrunk his broom, and he followed her into the living room. She picked up their chocolate mugs from earlier, and took them to the kitchen, fully expecting to return to find he'd Flooed home. Instead, when she came back, he was still there. "I think I've got it, from here," she said.

"I know. I said I'd show you, though…" He pulled his shirt up over his head, displaying a long, sinuous red-gold dragon that stretched from his shoulder down his chest and around his body. When he turned, she could see the tail came across his back and down under the waistband of his denims. When he turned back, it blinked at her lazily and snorted steam. Charlie winked and pulled his shirt back on. "See? Fun. Now, I don't imagine they're open tomorrow--today, actually--but the day after, if you want, we can see about getting you one. If you want."

She was still a little distracted by all the warm freckled and tanned skin under the golden dragon, but she managed to nod and meet his eyes. "I think I'd like that. Though I'm not sure thirty-six hour notice counts as spontaneity."

"Better than thirty-six days, right?" He went to the fireplace. "See you then. Unless you decide to come rescue me from my mother tomorrow."

Before she could figure out whether that was an invitation, a suggestion, or something else unknown, he tossed powder into the grate and stepped through.

She licked her lips, stared at the empty fireplace for a moment, and went to wash out the mugs before bed.

\--

It was snowing when Hermione awoke, snow that fell lazily in tiny dry flakes that more drifted than dropped. She sipped at her chocolate and made a face; Charlie was right. Comparatively the powdered stuff was shit.

The flakes kept on falling, remaining white for an instant and then vanishing on the pavement and her windowsills, as she considered again whether she was wanted to go, as he'd said, rescue Charlie, or whether she wanted to spend the day on her own.

She took another sip and grimaced, going back to the kitchen to dump out the chocolate and make some coffee instead. Ordinarily it's what she would have done in the first place, but the previous night's drinks had been nice, and she'd found herself wanting more.

Actually, she'd found herself wanting more from the previous night in general, but that didn't bear considering at the moment; she had other concerns. She measured coffee and filled the water well, and then stood watching the coffee drip.

By the time she had a full pot, she'd decided that the list of thoughts and topics regarding an addition to the Hogwarts curriculum ought to be written out. Not that she had any plans to do anything with them--nor that any plans she might ever have would be likely to produce any useful results; the Wizarding world was nothing if not resistant to sweeping change--but writing them out would help with the problem of more items continuing to show up in her head. Once the list was on paper, she could leave it there and come back to it when she wanted, rather than reviewing over and over in her head.

She took her cup to the desk and picked up the letter to her parents. There was no post today, of course, but she went ahead and transfigured it into a regular Muggle letter, airmail envelope and all, and put it on the corner of the desk. Then, she got out a fresh sheet of parchment and started writing. A few minutes later she levitated the coffee pot to her and poured a second cup as she kept going.

She was a little surprised when it turned out she had several pages' worth of lists and notes, but then, they'd batted ideas back and forth for a while the other day, and she'd had more thoughts in sundry moments since.

When she put her quill down at last, it was a little after two and her stomach was growling. Damn it, she was supposed to be eating regularly. A look in the kitchen confirmed that all she had on hand was tinned soup (salty and tiresome), crackers (definitely not qualified as a full meal), and some dodgy-smelling leftover chicken. Clearly she was going to have to go out.

Which was going to mean getting cleaned up and changed; she'd been sitting about in her bathrobe all morning, and her hair was a tangled mess from flying the night before.

She sighed, ate a handful of crackers to tide her over--promising out loud to get a real meal shortly, just in case somehow Healer Clementine should find out--and went to take a shower.

She'd never been much for fussing over her appearance, and today was no exception. She showered quickly, dried her hair, and pulled on last night's denims and a warm jumper, and within twenty minutes was ready for a good brisk walk. She didn't have any specific plans; she thought she'd just walk until she came across someplace that was open and smelled decent, which she thought was excellently spontaneous of her and also would get her away from a morning of sitting still and making lists. Pleased with herself, she pulled on a coat, then picked up her bag and went outside.

The snow had at some point started falling harder; it was staying on the ground a bit longer, and most of surfaces around her bore a thin coating. Still, it was dry snow, light and not particularly slippery, so walking along the pavement didn't create any undue hardship. The air was chilly but not bitingly cold, and there were a number of people out, walking dogs and sweeping steps. She turned left at the corner and kept on walking.

Harrigan's was closed, which wasn't much of a surprise; she was pretty sure he did most of his business on beer and dreadful greasy soup late in the evenings and generally didn't open until whatever time he felt like in the afternoon. She didn't think she'd have wanted to eat there anyway. All she'd ever had (once) was chips, and they'd been effectively inedible.

She went on, past the corner and making another eventual turn until she came to a place that was both open and moderately crowded with people of various ages. She pushed open the door and went in, taking a seat at the end of the bar because it was a little silly to take up a whole table when it was just her.

The food, when it arrived, was edible but not great. Still, the vegetables weren't stewed to oblivion, and the meat wasn't over-salted, so she ate most of what was on her plate. The place wasn't particularly noisy, not like the pub the night before, so after a while she pulled a book out of her bag, and with a glance around to make sure she wasn't taking up a seat anyone needed, settled in to read as she worked her way through a rather ordinary pot of tea. Finally, aware the sky outside was darkening, she paid for her meal and put on her coat.

As soon as she stepped outside, she noticed it was a lot colder, and that the snow was now heavy and wet. She briefly contemplated just Apparating home, but there were enough people out and about that she wasn't sure she wouldn't be seen, so she just tucked her hands deep into her pockets and ducked her head as she started toward home.

Not halfway down the block, she slipped on the ice forming under the snow and landed on her arse, left ankle burning, probably from the really ugly crunching noise it had made in the course of her landing. Damn it. She glanced around quickly and put her hand on her wand, deep in her coat pocket, to murmur a healing charm. She wasn't very good at them, by and large, but since the notion of spending the rest of the evening at a hospital accident and emergency department wasn't the least bit appealing, it was worth a try.

She was feeling the results of her work carefully when she noticed a pair of boots next to her. She looked up. 

"Can you stand?"

"Uh. I think so." She took the offered hand and pulled herself upright, putting weight gingerly on the foot. It was a little sore, or if she was honest, a lot sore, but didn't seem likely to give way. "Apparently yes," she said.

"Maybe you should come in, put some ice on it?" Her rescuer was a tall man--not as tall as Ron, but nearly, blond and broad-shouldered. He jerked his head in the direction of the house in front of which she'd taken her tumble. "It's no trouble."

She considered for a minute, then nodded. Right, spontaneity was the word of the day. "Um. I guess?" She mentally rolled her eyes at herself and tried to think of any way in which she could have sounded more like a child. 

Blond Man didn't seem to think she was being inexpressibly weird, though, so that was something. "I'm Devon," he said.

She nods. "Hello, Devon."

"And you are…?" He stood aside and turned to put his hand around behind her, ushering her toward his front steps. It was odd to go right in with someone she'd only just met, but she concluded that for one thing, ankle or not, she could probably defend herself if she needed to, as the Secrecy Statutes didn't apply to self-defense, and for another, she was still being spontaneous. In a limping and possibly-pathetic fashion.

"Oh. Sorry. Hermione." She let him lead her into his entry hall and through to the sitting room, while he went into the kitchen, presumably to put together some ice. She pulled up the cuff of her denims and pushed down her sock, crinkling her nose at the slight swelling and bruise that showed there despite her spell. It didn't feel all that bad, so she thought probably it would heal all right, but Devon was right; ice certainly wouldn't do any harm.

"Here we are, Hermione--what is that, Greek?" he asked, making his way around the end of the couch she was sitting on. "Oh, yeah, that looks like a bit of a sprain." He ran a finger along the mild swelling. "I'd have thought it would be worse, though, the way you came down. You were lucky."

"Are you a doctor?" Hermione asked curiously as she took off her shoe and sock.

"Nah. I'm just the bloke that fixes up the rest of his fellows after a bit of rugby in the park. Oh, here, you'll want a towel under that. No freezing the skin, right?"

She nodded. "Right." She let him prop her foot on a pillow on his coffee table, which was weirdly intimate-feeling, and watched as he set the bag of ice over a towel on top. 

"There. How's that?"

"All right." 

He sat down on the couch beside her and moved her foot around a bit. "Hurt?"

"Not really. I think it's just a sprain." She bit her lips a little, trying to recall times she was injured as a child; it's been over a decade since she had anything treated the Muggle way. "It'll probably be right as rain tomorrow."

"Probably." He ran his finger along her calf, which both tickled and sent a weird sensation up her leg, but just when she was starting to feel uncomfortable, he stood up and went back to the kitchen, returning a moment later with two cans of cold fizzy cola and a bowl of crisps. "Here, energy to help you heal."

"I'm not sure crisps have ever been demonstrated to cause anything to heal," she said, twisting her lips into a slight grin. "However, perhaps it's just that there haven't been any really good studies performed."

"That must be it." He opened one of the cans and handed it to her, then sat down again, placing the bowl of crisps between them. "I don't suppose you're a television aficionado?"

She shook her head. "Rarely watch it. But I don't want to put you out, so if you had something you intended to see…"

He crossed one leg over his knee and untied the boot, loosening the laces before he dropped that foot down to toe that one off and lift the other one. He crossed his sock-clad ankles in the table next to her foot and shook his head. "No, but I thought it might be a little weird to try to strike up conversation while you sit here with ice on."

"You don't have to entertain me," she said. "I mean, as I say, I don't want to put you out. I'm sure I could make it home and use my own ice, if this is too awkward."

"Not at all. Pretty girls in my sitting room are never an occasion of awkwardness, see."

Hermione shook her head. "Clumsy ones that fall over their own feet on the pavement, though…"

He shrugged. "Not mutually exclusive. So, what _do_ you like to do with your time."

She opened her mouth to try to say, then closed it again, considering. "Um. I'm between jobs right now," she finally managed. "Or rather, I'm on a bit of a leave from my job, and I'm not sure how things will look when I go back."

Devon nodded. "At loose ends, then."

"More or less. I've been doing a good deal of reading and seeing art in museums, that sort of thing."

"I see. You must live near here, if you were walking; maybe we should see an exhibit together some time."

He was looking at her intently, as though he were quite interested in her answer, and Hermione paused again, wondering several things at once. Was he chatting her up? With a sprained ankle and a bag of ice? Maybe she was as bad at reading this sort of thing as she thought, because that was what it seemed like, and that was also fairly ridiculous. Wasn't it? Though he was appealing, in a rather …prettier way that she usually liked. While she thought about that, he smiled.

"What?" he asked.

She shrugged and decided honesty was easier than trying to figure these things out. It wasn't like she wasn't generally a straightforward sort of girl, so if it irritated him, she might as well find out. "I was just trying to decide whether you were flirting, or just naturally flirty, or if I'm totally misreading you."

His eyebrows went up. "God, I must be doing it terribly, if you're not sure."

"No, not really. I'm a lot out of practice. Like, forever out of practice, actually. More than you want to know, but I'm recently divorced, and flirty athletic men are a bit out of my experience in the last, oh, decade or so."

"But you aren't offended?"

"No." She bit her lip again. "Just a little puzzled," she finally confessed.

"At what?"

"At why falling on my arse next to your house made me seem like a reasonable target of flirtation."

Devon laughed. "It didn't. I just figured I was lucky that a, what did you say? Reasonable target of flirtation? Collapsed in a heap in front of my house."

She nodded, even though that didn't really answer the question.

"Actually, I'm recently out of a long relationship as well," he said. "I'm not looking for anything complicated."

"I hear that," she said.

"Ah, good." He leaned over close and murmured, "Then I guess we're both mostly looking for some fun."

She brought up the can of cola still in her hand and took a sip, which necessarily caused him to move back slightly. "Sorry," she said. "I'm not looking for that, either."

He shrugged. "Couldn't hurt to try, right?"

"Right. But I expect I've been monopolizing you long enough." She took another sip of the cola, which was awfully sweet, possibly because her parents had never let her drink such a thing as a child, then leaned forward and lifted the ice bag off her foot. "It really isn't so bad," she said. "I should go."

"We could keep talking," he said. "I mean, if you aren't interested--I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"No, I think that part's my doing," she said. "I'm more than a little jumpy about complicating my life again, and despite that a friend tells me what I ought to do is engage in some sort of meaningless rebound something or other, I've about concluded I'm terrible at that. Which leads to me being all conflicted about signals and that on top of having never really--well." She couldn't very well say she'd never done anything noteworthy with a Muggle, and while the mechanics were ostensibly the same, she could feel the difference." She set the towel and ice-bag down on the coffee table and pulled her sock and shoe back on, tying the shoe tightly for support. 

"Well, should you change your mind," he said. "Not necessarily about the complicated things. We could always talk about theater or something."

She nodded, feeling like she was either overreacting ridiculously or being naïve or somehow both, and cautiously took a step on the sore foot. "It actually does feel better," she said. "And I really appreciate the ice and the conversation."

"Any time." He followed her to the door and helped her down the steps. "Be careful, all right? I'd offer to see you home, but seriously, I think no matter what you say, I creeped you out, so I won't."

She looked at him for a moment, then shook her head. "I don't really know how to answer that, because honestly, you didn't do anything weird. But I also can manage myself getting home, so thanks for not pushing." She turned and started along the pavement slowly, waiting until she heard his door close before muttering another charm to transfigure her shoes into something a bit more secure on ice. Then, once she was around the corner, she tucked herself back into a little off-set place in the fence, looked around, and Apparated home.

Her flat smelled like coffee and chocolate, because she hadn't really cleaned up from this morning, and her ankle hurt from the jolt of landing after Apparation, but she was glad to have completed the adventure phase of her day.

She chuckled at herself slightly. "Age eighteen: a year touring the wilds of Britain with two boys and a bunch of maniacs chasing the lot of you is all in a day's work. Age twenty-five: a handsome man who's willing to feed you and discuss theaters or tumble you into bed constitutes a severely overwhelming adventure. Hermione the Ridiculous, they ought to call you."

She sat down on the couch, Summoned a pillow from the bedroom and a glass of water from the kitchen, transfigured both to create a comfortable ice-pillow of sorts, and propped up her foot again.

After a few minutes she Summoned a quill and parchment, and wrote a note to Charlie, then considered it for a few minutes. Would it be weird to send it? He'd said he might want rescuing, though, and she didn't want to actually go there. Finally, she hobbled over to Griselda's cage and tied the note to her leg. "Just for Charlie if he's alone, girl. Don't give it to anyone else that might be about; I don't want there to be drama, all right?"

Griselda gave her best disdainful look, which was pretty damn good for an owl, and fluttered to the windowsill, waiting for Hermione to let her out.

\--

"Halloo?" 

Hermione had of course just finished up her morning coffee and headed to the loo the next morning when Charlie came through the Floo, so she opened the door back up and poked her head out. "Come on in, just be a tick."

She hobbled to the toilet, irritated that the ankle was actually getting more sore, not less, and carefully went about her business, then washed her hands and made her way out into the sitting room. "Hi."

"Your owl suits you," he said. "I don't know her, you know. She was asleep the other times I was here."

"Oh. Uh, Charlie, Griselda. Griselda, Charlie."

"Yes, we met last night. She was extremely insistent at my window, which was a little weird--usually they'll just drop something downstairs."

"Sorry. Were you busy? I told her you only because I didn't want her creating drama. Ron knows her, obviously."

"I wasn't busy, just surprised. Why are you hobbling?"

"This would be the issue that I mentioned which prevented any rescuing of you from your mother. I wasn't actually sure if you wanted rescuing, though; you've spent rather a lot of your holiday entertaining me."

Charlie sat down on the couch and patted the cushion next to him. "Here, let me see."

"It's just--well, it probably was broken, but I'm not that good at doing healing charms on myself," she said as she sat.

"Bring it here?" He caught her foot as she brought it up onto the couch and carefully rolled the sock down off her foot, then prodded gently, ignoring her hiss when it hurt. "You fixed the bone okay," he said after a moment, "but the other tissues are a little pissed off. Here." He pushed her foot up into an angle that didn't feel very good, spreading his fingers to force it a little bit, then murmured a couple of healing charms and let go. "Better?"

"Yes, but I didn't call you here to fix me," she said. "I mean, now you've spent your holiday entertaining _and repairing_ me."

He pulled a face. "Not a problem, and what, you _like_ hobbling about and waiting for it to heal? It'll probably still be a little stiff after you sit still for a while, but not too bad. And now, I can still drag you out to entertain _me_ this afternoon. Are you still serious about ink?"

"But you didn't have to come early. I mean, your mother--"

"Is very, very accustomed to me not being very good at sitting around the house," Charlie said. "I think she quit actually expecting that at least ten years ago, not that she doesn't still tut about it."

"Right. Well, thanks, then." She realized her foot was still in her lap and went to remove it, and was surprised when he held onto it and beckoned for her to bring up the other one. "Um. Why?"

"Don't have to. But I'm going to guess your adventures of the day yesterday involved walking, and therefore, I thought I'd offer." His thumbs pressed into the arch of her foot as he rubbed, and while technically there wasn't anything incredibly intimate about foot rubs, Hermione found herself blushing.

"Yes, I did other things all morning, and then I went walking to find somewhere to eat. I slipped and fell on my way back, and then even though I did heal it enough not to find myself carted off to accident and emergency at a Muggle hospital, I found myself being offered ice and snacks by a man named Devon. Who thought perhaps while I iced my foot, I'd like to, um. There were suggestions made."

Charlie's hands stilled. "And?"

"And nothing. Why?"

"Well. I think we talked about flings, and I assume you can handle yourself, so the choices are, you did, you didn't, or you gave him a raging case of boils and/or a broken nose."

She giggled. "Didn't, and he was perfectly reasonable about it, though it was a little awkward, so I left."

He went back to rubbing. "Good, then."

"Why'd you stop rubbing to ask? I mean, not that you owe me a foot rub, but I'm curious."

"Talked about and being faced with the actuality of aren't the same," he said. "Which doesn't mean the suggestion doesn't stand, just--"

"You don't want to hear about it?"

"Not in any prurient sense. I just want to know whether you've got any fling-having out of your system."

"What if I really just am not a flinging kind of girl? Maybe girls do this differently than boys. Or I do."

He frowned. "See, I'm trying not to be pushy, but I really am interested. But not in being a rebound quickie."

Hermione shook her head. "Maybe my rebound stupidity was making myself ill and working too hard, you know?"

"That doesn't seem all that equivalent."

"Ah, but I think there's some rule that women are supposed to be a little mysterious, right? I mean, you know, I wouldn't want to be boring." She scowled a little as she said it, recalling that actually, she _had_ sometimes bored Ron. Not that he'd been cruel about, but still, no one wanted to bore her spouse.

"Oi," Charlie said, waiting until she looked at him. "for one thing, if you were likely to bore me, I wouldn't be showing up to cart you off to do things of which my mother--and probably your ex--wouldn't approve."

"Right. Speaking of, I should go get dressed."

"You _are_ dressed."

"Yes, but I want to change into a different jumper. This one's more lazing about the flat than going anywhere."

Charlie tilts his head. "It's not dreadful. Plus, I don't know, you might want old and soft. Depending on how your skin reacts."

"Good point. Well, fine. I should put on shoes. If you're done with my feet."

He lifted his hands to let her stand.

"Oh, hey, that does feel a lot better," she said. "By the way, where are we going?"

"Tattoo artist."

"Yes, I rather thought that might be part of the tattoo-acquisition process. I mean, you know, where?"

"Oh, I know a bloke out in Exeter, unless you'd rather stick to someone local."

She shrugged. "I can't believe I'm getting a tattoo anyway. Might as well be with someone you trust."

"You don't have to, you know. I mean, it wasn't a dare or anything."

"Yeah, I know."

"You decide what you want, then?"

She sat back down with her shoes and leaned over to tie them. "You'll just have to wait and see."

"There we are back to women and mysteries again."

"I like to keep people on their toes. Also, did you eat? Because I had some toast, but we could get some breakfast."

He nodded. "I ate, and we can get some lunch, after. Unless you're hungry, in which case I gather Harry--uh, I mentioned to him I'd run into you?"

"Oh?"

"Anyway, my sense is I'm supposed to not allow you to get sidetracked from food. I'm telling you this only because that way if he asks, you will know to say I'm being completely helpful and whatnot. Your appetite is up to you."

"I knew there was something I liked about you." She stood and Summoned her coat. "So, are we flying again?"

"Only if you don't mind."

She grinned and Disillusioned them both.

\--

"You're looking much better," Healer Clementine said. She ran her wand over Hermione's midsection again. "I'm quite surprised. It's been only ten days since you were last in."

Hermione shrugged. "I've been running about with an old friend who's been in town." That was a bit of a stretch; she'd _known_ Charlie a long time, but for one thing he was only in town when he was in her flat, more or less, and for another thing, the friendship was a lot more recent.

"Well, I approve of your friend. This is the one you were meeting, last time?"

"Yes."

"Good. Another few weeks like this and we'll have your stomach fully healed and you released back to work."

"A few more weeks?" Hermione crinkled her nose. "I was hoping I could bring home a couple of things this week."

Healer Clementine looked her up and down carefully. "One case, to be played with no more than two hours per day. I see you again next week. Deal?"

Hermione nodded. "I'll take it."

Healer Clementine made a note in her records, then scribbled out a release form that would allow her access to the Ministry and held it out. "Don't make me regret this, Miss Granger."

"I won't." Hermione rolled up her permission slip and stuck it in her coat pocket, then got dressed and made her way to the lobby and out. She was walking toward the Ministry when Charlie jogged up next to her. 

"How'd it go?"

"I get to take one case home," she said with a grin. "And not work more than two hours per day."

"Progress, then," he said lightly. 

His tone struck her as odd, and she looked at him for a minute. "What?"

"What what?"

"I don't know. It's progress, but you sound like--"

"Nothing at all," he said with a grin. "I'm glad you got some of what you want, is all."

She didn't think that was all, but let the matter drop. "I'm going to go in and fetch something to work on," she said, "but if you want to wait, then I'm going home." She paused. "When are you due to leave, anyway?"

"Leave?"

"Britain. Unless there's a new colony here, I assume--"

"I'll be about for a little while yet," he said. 

"So, if you want to attempt to eat my rendition of lasagna…"

"Only if you let me help make it," he said. "I'm not bad with a spatula."

"Man of many talents." She grinned. "Right, well, I doubt I'll be more than an hour, even with dealing with Wilbert and whatever Miranda thinks is critical. Meet me there?"

"I'll bring bread." Charlie sketched a ridiculous little bow and grinned before heading off in another direction. Hermione continued on toward her office.

Of course, the pile of things Miranda had set aside for her to handle was a little overwhelming, and the temptation was there to sit down and work through the stack from start to finish, but Hermione licked her lips and said, "Miranda, I'm not supposed to spend more than thirty minutes at this, and I'm counting on you to help me not, all right?"

"You want me to sort out the worst of the worst, or assign some of this to--"

"I don't know yet. Give me twenty-five minutes to see what's what, and then we'll talk?"

Miranda nodded and handed over the pile of slips and parchments, then went back out into the reception area, leaving Hermione with her comfortable chair and her wide desk.

And a pile of slips and parchments.

She took a deep breath, turned on the soothing lower-back-massage feature of the chair, and started skimming through the mess.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione held up one finger.

"Hermione."

"Miranda! I've barely begun! The Helton case has at least four loose ends here, and what in the world has Creatures been doing out in the Hebrides?"

"And you told me to help you not get over-involved. And I'm nearly sure Wilbert would agree."

Hermione sighed. "This isn't going to be easy, is it?"

"Maybe not. Sorry. So, which case are you taking home?"

Hermione scowled at the piles she'd made. "I don't know if I can do _any_ of these justice in two hours a day."

Miranda studied her for a minute, then pressed her lips together before speaking. "May I make a suggestion?"

"Feel free." Hermione gestured at her piles. "Nothing here is."

"Then I suggest you take home _one_ of the Helton loose ends, and let me assign out the other three for now."

Hermione sighed. "Okay. That could work." She picked up three of her piles. "Give one to Caldwell, all right? He's left good notes here."

"I will." Miranda's lips twisted. "Do you need me to check on you at home?"

Hermione shook her head. "I think I have a friend who will make sure I'm not an idiot. I hope."

"Good." Miranda sorted the piles in her hands and added, "You do look healthier than you have in months, you know."

"Lovely. I do like knowing I looked a wreck before."

"Didn't say that. But still."

"I know, I know." Hermione scowled again at her piles. "Well, maybe I'll see you again in one week. I'll owl if I need anything."

Miranda turned to go, then looked over her shoulder, obviously waiting for Hermione to walk out with her. Hermione sighed. "It's a good thing I like you."

\--

Charlie, naturally, was leaning against the outside of her front door when she arrived, loaf of bread in a wrapper in one hand as he lifted the other to look where a watch would be if he wore one. That arm had a bag looped over it, but she couldn’t tell what might be inside.

"Sorry," she said with a shrug. "Miranda tried, but I'm even worse at stopping than I expected. Still, I did all right. Have you been waiting long?"

He shoved away from the door and let her open it, then followed her in. "Nah. Couple of minutes, but I was mostly giving you a hard time. I think you're just about exactly on schedule, actually."

"Well, that's something, then." She passed her wand around the set of papers to make sure they were securely together and wouldn't fall and get disorganized, then sent the lot of them in to her office and onto the desk. "The bread smells good."

"But it's lonely," he said. "Come on, we've got sauce to make and cheese to grate to keep it company…"

"You make cooking sound like a game."

He shrugged. "I don't know; there's something of a quest to the whole concept, don't you think? That is, taking all these separate parts and making a new whole out of them?"

"You could look at it that way."

"And I do." He bent and rummaged in her cupboards, then started pulling things from the pantry and setting them on the counter. "You have a particular recipe for this?"

"Apparently not as much of one as you do," she said. Aside from things he'd got from the pantry, he was also unloading the bag he'd brought, which, it turned out, was full of fresh herbs and good local cheese along with mushrooms and good olive oil. "I thought you were bringing, and I do quote, _bread_."

"Well, I wasn't completely sure what you'd have on hand. Tomatoes were pretty safe, and probably some kind of pasta, or the makings of--"

"Which naturally you'd just whip up from scratch?"

"Probably not. That would probably involve a trip to the market, instead. Just easier. But anyway, not having ingredients you need is kind of a pain, right?" He held up an onion. "You want to chop?"

She took it and stripped off the papery outer layer and ends with her wand, then set it in a bowl and reduced it to small pieces. "Peppers? What else do you have there?"

He grinned and passed over garlic and sweet peppers, as well as the mushrooms, then started browning meat at the stove. "So, you ever gonna let me see that tat?" he asked. "I mean, just curious. You didn't even tell me where it was."

She paused in the process of pulling out the seeds of the peppers. "I don't see you volunteering to show me the rest of yours."

He arched a brow. "Are we playing a game of you'll show me yours if I'll show you mine, then?"

"Um." She blushed. "I didn't quite mean to imply anything really overt or--"

"Shut it. I was poking you again. Not like that."

"Yes, that's going to help with the blushing, when you say outrageous things."

"No, outrageous would be a specific proposal involving you, the dining room table, high heels, and chocolate sauce; however, I would never make such a suggestion without a clear invitation to do so, so you're safe."

Hermione paused in the act of stripping the paper off the garlic, which, since her other hand continued (with her wand), only meant she managed to inattentively slice into the pad of her thumb. "Oh!"

Charlie set down his spoon and wiped off his hands, then steered her to sink to put that under running cold water. "Give it a sec, and I'll fix it, unless you'd rather," he said, standing very close to her, chest to chest.

"No, you can. I mean, as I said, healing charms on myself--"

"Right. Well, while we wait for it to get good and cleaned up, I should probably say sorry for being a distracting arse."

She shook her head ruefully. "Not your fault. I just got possibly a little too interested in the image being presented. And wondering if I had on heels, what you were doing."

"Admiring," he said. He took her hand out from under the water and looked at the welling blood. "Don't think you have anything caught in there, so…" He pointed his wand and sealed the cut, the lifted her hand and kissed the seam. "Good as new." 

She shook her head. "Not quite, but thanks." She went back to dicing vegetables, and watched him stir things into his sauce. After a minute, she decided to change the subject. "So, Miranda pretty much had to chase me out."

"This can't have been a complete surprise. You've always been pretty driven, right?"

"Driven sounds so… psychotic. I've always been _motivated_ , more like. That is to say, I want to do things well, and have them completed on time, but I don't like to think I've been insane about it."

"Only occasionally." He stirred in tinned tomatoes and stuck in a finger to taste. He shrugged and dipped another finger, holding it out to her.

"That's not exactly the most sanitary tasting method known to man," she pointed out. "I have no idea where your hands have been."

"Well, can't have been anywhere seriously toxic, or I'd be writhing on the floor clutching my stomach or something, right? But, if you don't want any input as to whether this is acceptable…" He went to put that finger in his mouth too, but she caught his wrist and sucked the sauce off his finger, ignoring the way this made her (and clearly him) think of something else entirely.

"It's fine," she said, letting his hand go.

He cleared his throat and bent to look in the cupboard again, for a bigger pot, then set it to heating on the other side of the stove. "So, what do you think you'll do?"

"Try to learn not to be so driven, apparently."

"Yes, but by what method? Or are you still working on that?"

She sighed and started to tear open the box of lasagna noodles, then shook her head and sliced off the top with her wand. "Still working on it."

"Well, there's always Quidditch."

"I hardly think I'm going to take up Quidditch at this late date," she said, glancing over at him.

"I meant as a spectator, obviously. I didn't really think you were up to any aerial feinting, Wronski or otherwise, on your own. Not that you _couldn't_ learn to, out of sheer bloody-mindedness or something, but I doubt you want to." He winked as the water came to a boil, then dumped in noodles and started organizing the cheese. For a few minutes they were occupied with assembling the dish, bumping into each other and reaching across until finally, Hermione backed off and let him finish it up because otherwise they were just going to end up with sauce all over each other.

"Et voila," he said, holding up the pan. "Now, to bake it." He put it in the oven and set a timer charm with his wand, then stepped toward her. "You have sauce on your face."

"Crap. I meant to avoid that." She put up her hand to dab, but this time he caught _her_ wrist. 

"Oh, no. Fair's fair, Hermione."

"What?" She only belatedly realized he meant to lick the sauce (if there even was any) off her, like she had off his finger. She hesitated an instant, then loosed her hand from his gentle grip and pushed her hair back over her shoulders. "There. Better?"

He grinned. "Much." He leaned in and brushed his lips over her cheek, dabbing with his tongue before kissing his way to her mouth. 

She'd been a little worried--sort of abstractedly, since it wasn't as though her day was devoted to considerations of this sort of thing--that she might have forgotten how to do this. It had been a long time, other than the relatively brief kiss on New Year's Eve, and it did seem like the sort of thing at which one might get out of practice. However, as the kiss went on, gentle and thorough and then deeper and more breathless, she concluded perhaps that wasn't the case.

Finally, he pulled back and looked at her. "Either we should stop or we should adjourn to the couch while we wait for the food to be ready," he said.

"Oh?"

"Well. I mean, there's always the kitchen counter…"

She giggled. "I think the couch will be fine."

He nodded and turned, taking her hand to pull her along with him. She laced their fingers together and followed along.

\--

Charlie had said he'd be gone for a few days, maybe a week, and Hermione was a little appalled at how dependent she'd become on having him around to steady her.

Well, or how much she just _wanted_ to have him around, really; it wasn't as though she was forgetting to take care of herself.

Though she was definitely noteworthily dreadful at limiting her work time. The first day he'd been away, she'd worked on the case for nearly four hours before coming up for air, and while she wasn't kicking herself about that, because she did see that coming to balance was going to be a process, she also had to deliberately _not_ go right back to it after lunch. And that was just sad, because losing track of time was one thing, but actually choosing to set aside the orders of the healer, who wasn't, after all, a sadist, was something else. But it was just that the Heltons were going to be totally screwed if her office didn't get its act together, and she didn't want to fail them. 

Which, she reminded herself, she would if she managed to make herself ill again while holding onto parts of their case. Today, she was being better. Two hours, by the clock, and she put the whole file back in the drawer and sealed it in, then stared at the drawer for a few minutes before adding a timer. It wasn't like she couldn't unmake her own charm, but she'd have to _really_ do it on purpose after that, and she just wasn't going to.

She sat on the couch for a few minutes, face heating as she recalled Charlie's hands pushing up under her shirt and his lips nuzzling at her neck as they sat on the same spot two days earlier. They'd nuzzled and cuddled for a long time--until supper was ready, and then again after they'd eaten, but for one reason or another neither of them had taken things any further. And then, right about the time it had started to feel like maybe they should discuss …something about what they were doing, the telephone had rung, and it had been her mother, ringing to sympathize about (and gently disapprove of) her entire divorce and job situation. Charlie had silently offered to go, but she'd shaken her head, needing the support.

He'd gone and quietly cleaned up the kitchen, far enough away not to overhear every word but still be present--he'd popped his head in every few minutes just in case she'd somehow forgotten.

Her mother had remained on the line a long time, until finally Hermione had actually started yawning because of the late hour. She had the feeling her mum thought she was putting her off under false pretenses, but she really had found the conversation exhausting at the end of a relatively long day, and in the end they'd agreed to talk again soon.

Ten seconds after she'd set down the handset, Charlie had pulled her back to the couch and sat with her for a while, letting her rest her head on his shoulder without asking for a re-cap or anything, and then he'd talked about being gone for a few days. Which was puzzling; she'd wondered if it was anything to do with her being a pain to deal with, but she hadn't wanted to ask, and in any case, shortly after that, he'd kissed her thoroughly again and gone, still without taking things any further. She'd wanted to, badly, and it had been clear he was interested, and yet, it had seemed as though there were some piece waiting to fall into place, and it wasn't ready yet.

Not that her imagination hadn't filled in the blanks quite nicely after he'd gone.

Right, well much fun as it was thinking about where that was going (maybe, not that she was entirely convinced of anything, nor that she was quite certain even whether it was a good idea in the first place), sitting in her living room blushing all day was a bit _too_ unproductive, so she stood again and put on her coat, then went out the door on a walk.

She remembered, all those months ago, walking to work in the mornings, taking various paths and watching busy people going about their lives; this was different. She walked where she wanted, enjoying the way her legs got a little tired and her feet a little sore--one more than the other, the reminder of the Devon Incident--and considering the way so many of the people in her neighborhood were home at two o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon. Not everyone, certainly, and of course, it was largely because of the holiday season, but still, they were by and large busy and productive people, and still, they had time to play with their kids.

Eventually, she found herself in a spot isolated enough to Apparate, and did, turning up at the Ministry a moment later. It didn't take much to get in to see Harry; he wasn't senior enough to have incredibly important cases every moment, and the receptionist winked at her and said well of course, he always had time for her.

Which was sweet. She hadn't been to see him in forever, and when she last had been, it had always been her-and-Ron, which wasn't the same. He looked up as she knocked on his door. "Hey, you!"

"Hi. I was out walking in an effort not to work too hard--"

" _Good_."

"Oh, shut it. I know. I was just thinking, you know?"

"No, I usually avoid doing that. Too much headache." He grinned. "I meant, good that you stopped it yourself. You have lunch yet?"

"Harry! It's nearly three. Of course I had lunch."

He snorted, but didn't comment. "So, you were out walking, considering what it was like to be a layabout, and that led you, naturally, to my door."

She laughed. "Yes, that was the thing. I wasn't sure how to phrase it; so glad you're not offended."

"Never. So, you're working some, again, though?"

"Didn't Healer Clementine keep you in the loop?"

He shook his head. "No, honest, Hermione, I only let them tell me the one thing because you were _really unwell_. I do actually respect your privacy, you know."

"Thanks. I don't actually know why I came to see you, just, it seemed like I should."

"Following your gut is important. You know that."

"True." Hermione chewed her lip, considering where to begin. She wasn't actually sure _that_ she should explain about Charlie to Harry. She didn't want to make things awkward for him and Ron, too, and for all she knew, the whole thing would go nowhere. But being on her own wasn't doing her any favors, either. 

"Hermione?"

"What?"

"You came to visit me and have now been looking at the inkpot for like a minute and a half."

"Sorry. I was just… so, I've been spending my time with Charlie."

"I see why the inkpot was completely relevant to that."

"No, just. I feel weird about this, but we've become close, and today he's not here, so there wasn't anyone worrying, and, that is, he doesn't push me, like certain irritating best friends, but it's nice. That there's someone worrying but not, oh I don't know how to--"

"Oi, Harry! You won't believe this." Ron's voice came in from the outer office, and before he followed it or Harry or Hermione could say anything, he went on, "Katherine says she's preg--oh. Hi."

Hermione blinked and counted on her fingers. "Wow, that was quick."

"Shit. I didn't know you'd be here."

"Sorry. Uh, you should probably tell her to go see a healer, unless you've actually been seeing her a lot longer than I know about."

Ron stared at her. "I think it's beyond strange to get medical advice of this sort regarding my kind-of girlfriend from my ex-wife."

Hermione considered for a moment whether she felt uncomfortable offering the advice. She didn't, really, which was a little surprising. She shrugged. "Up to you. I'd think you'd want to make sure you understand the situation, though."

"Why, you think--"

"I don't think anything, Ron, but I know that while it only takes one time, knowing immediately is unusual, and I think you were seeing Larissa pretty recently. That's all. I wasn't making a judgment. About you _or_ her, though I'm curious if this is something you actually wanted."

Ron didn't answer for a moment. "I should go," he finally said.

Hermione stood. "No, probably _I_ should."

"Wait," Harry said. "That's silly. You can't just be unable to be around each other. There have been awkward things before!"

Hermione smiled. "It's fine, Harry. And it _will_ be fine, and eventually it won't even be awkward. But right now, Ron probably needs a sounding board, and I'm not it, so. I'll come by maybe at the weekend?"

"Yeah, you should," Harry said. 

Hermione headed for the door with a wave. As she closed it behind her, she heard Harry telling Ron he should come by, too. He paused with her fingers still on the handle, then shrugged. She'd like that, actually, and probably learning to be friends again was not only really necessary, if this whole Charlie thing went on, but healthy. Doing it in contexts where they expected to see each other seemed right.

\--

Having started to put things into words with Harry had left Hermione both more clear-headed and more muddled about the entire situation. Well, no; not muddled. More distracted than ever, though, as was clear by two the subsequent afternoon, when she'd spent the entire morning and then part of the afternoon puttering about, going back and forth between working on the files and stopping because she should and then getting restless and going back to them, all the while feeling disappointed in herself for something which was neither failure at the work, nor failure at keeping herself entertained.

Though she was a little irritated at herself for both of those things.

Finally, at a quarter to four, she put the whole file in a box and then reshelved all the books she'd got out in the past few days to cross-reference and confirm various details. The box, she put away on the far side of the couch. 

With her desk thus cleared off, she got out a fresh sheet of parchment and a sharp new quill, and sat down.

How to begin, she wondered.

It'd been easier to start the letter to her parents, once she'd actually put quill to paper, though to be fair, that had been because Charlie had pushed her out of just thinking and into action. Well, she wuld just have to handle that for herself this time. She pressed her lips together and started writing.

_Dear Headmistress McGonagall,_

_During an unexpected break in my working schedule, I've been considering making a proposal regarding what I perceive to be a significant gap in the Hogwarts curriculum, and wondered if I might come discuss my thoughts with you ahead of writing up anything formal._

She read back over her words. Not bad. A little wishy-washy. It was a starting point. She put the quill back to the page and kept going.

Three drafts later, and well past when she ought to have stopped for supper, she was satisfied enough with her efforts. Still, she thought she might read it over again in the morning before sending it out. She rolled it up and set it to the side, then shook her head. If she read it again in the morning, she'd just think of reasons it was imperfect and put off sending it. She'd known Minerva a long time, and she didn't need to be perfect for her. She called Griselda to her and affixed the letter. She'd thought about it--actually, off and on for years now, though only recently with much encouragement--and there was no reason to delay. Bringing the idea forward, even if she eventually concluded it wasn't something she could see to herself and even if Minerva hated it, would only increase the likelihood of eventual change, and there was nothing wrong with that.

She opened the window to let Griselda out, then turned back to the sound of Charlie calling through the floo.

"Come on through," she said. 

He stepped out and brushed off ash, looking tired, but glad to see her. "Hi."

"Hi. I wasn't expecting you quite yet." She closed the window.

"Yeah, I just got back. Don't tell Mum I came here first."

Hermione grinned. "Right. Top secret, very hush-hush. Have you eaten?"

"Nope."

"Good, me either." She paused, but he didn't say anything, so she added, "I guess I didn't know I was waiting for you, but it works out well. What should we have?"

He stepped toward her and tipped her chin up with one finger. "It does work out well, and I don't much care, but I think we won't starve to death if we delay for another thirty seconds or so." She wasn't really surprised by the kiss, but his time estimate was ridiculously low, and it wasn't until the clock chimed that they broke apart. He winked and took her hand to go back to the floo. 

\--

"So, were you doing anything fun?"

He stopped with his glass halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"While you were gone. Not that you owe me an explanation of your whereabouts or anything, just, I wondered if it was something fun." Hermione smiled. "I promise I'm not fishing when I say that given you've been busy keeping me from being an idiot for the last three weeks, it'd be fair."

"One, I don't even think you know how to fish. Two, I haven't exactly been tied down being miserable here; you and I have been having loads of fun--museums, libraries, flying a bit, that ridiculous exhibition thing out in Wiltshire…"

"Still, you couldn’t have intended to spend your holiday shepherding me around. You must have had _some_ other plans, so I'm glad you went and did whatever it was."

Charlie shrugged uneasily. "I'll tell you all about it. Just, after supper, all right?"

Hermione watched him for a minute, uncertain as to what she'd just said to make him upset, then nodded and took a bite of her chicken, chewing slowly.

"Shit. I didn't mean to be all weird," Charlie said. He took another drink of his wine, then shook his head. "And I'm pretty sure there's nothing I can say to be convincing about that, huh?"

"Probably not."

"Right. So, I was in Romania, actually."

"Just for a few days? That doesn't make very much sense."

"It does if I'm not too busy pretending everything's fine to go telling people I'm spending a ton of time with about why, exactly, I'm home for a month, which has, you know, never happened before. I mean, Mum must be suspicious, because really, I haven't been home like this, even including during the war, in thirteen years. But she's not asking, and I haven't been telling." He chuckled dryly. "Though, for all I know, her bloody clock told her before I was even in the country, and for reasons known only to her, she decided to remain calm just to freak me out."

Hermione frowned and took another slow bite of her chicken and swallowed it before trying to answer any of that. She wasn't at all sure _how_ to answer a ramble like that from Charlie, who had been the picture of stability for weeks. "All right, so, you're maybe freaking _me_ out a little, but it's okay. It's your turn, right? And besides, I was being nosy. So, what do you think? Go ahead and tell me about it, or change the subject for now and talk about it later?"

"Later, would be my preference," Charlie said. "Thanks." He prodded his steak with his knife and the sliced off a couple more bites, eating more thoughtfully than usual. "Oh, and you weren't being weirdly nosy, by the way. It wasn't--anyway. How's the Helton thing?"

"Mmmthere's a story about that, too," Hermione said. "But I've been being careful not to wear myself out, even lacking the presence of a helpful distraction."

"That what I am?" His tone was light again, and she could see he was teasing, not hurt.

"Yes. A large distraction with excellent timing and an impeccable record," she said. 

He bit his lip for a second and then ducked his chin down a little, looking up at her with dancing eyes. "Glad to know you're thinking of me as large," he said low enough not to be overheard. "Hope I can live up to it."

She gaped for a second, then snorted. "Boys."

He shrugged. "Can't help it, but I think it extends to men, too, as I am not, even by Wizarding standards, still a boy."

She smirked. "Extends, does it?"

When he blushed, she concluded that first, she'd won, and second, there was something to be said for having spent virtually all of her teenage years with a set of friends who were nearly all male.

\--

By unspoken agreement, they didn't discuss either of the stories that needed telling until they were back at her flat, which, despite that they were both waiting to tell and to hear, took quite some time. They'd degenerated further into giggling and teasing at the restaurant, and then they'd walked cheerfully, hand in hand, along the lane and out into Muggle London. There had been no real hurry, no time they really had to be anywhere, so they'd just strolled, enjoying the crisp air on a relatively clear night amid Muggles entering and exiting the Tube. She'd asked, at one point, if he'd ever taken that particular form of transit, which got her an odd look and a no; he'd followed up by asking whether she really thought there was much chance his mother would have allowed it.

She'd laughed and agreed it was unlikely, and then nodded at his pointing out that since he'd left his mother's household, he'd always been an adult with a broom and an Apparation license, depressingly bad at Apparation though he was.

So, they'd taken a ride. Not a long one, just a trip down underground, with Hermione paying for both of them and Charlie not being much like his father at all, riding calmly with her and watching the stations go by. Eventually, they'd left off not far from the house Hermione grew up in, which only naturally led to a bit of a jaunt through that neighborhood. She hadn't been in a few years, but things looked relatively unchanged. Finally, they'd found a secluded spot for Disillusionment and Charlie had flown them back to her flat. She'd leaned back against his chest and to her surprise thought that actually, maybe she could learn to do this on her own (and not hate it), if he was the one teaching her.

They landed on the steps of her block of flats, and with a glance around she canceled the charm and unlocked her door to let them in. 

Griselda flew in with them, flapping her wings as she settled onto her perch with a letter on her leg.

Hermione raised her eyebrows and went to take the letter and offer Griselda a treat, but she didn't really want to read it now; she wanted to finish their earlier conversation. She settled the owl in her cage and set the scroll on her desk, then turned back to Charlie. He moved past her into the kitchen and pulled out pans for chocolate again, speaking as he measured and splashed.

"So, I was in Romania because I had some things to finish up," he said.

"Finish up?" Hermione frowned. "That sounds rather final."

He pursed his lips. "Quite, actually. Also, I should have told you this a couple of weeks ago or more, because it's relevant."

"Relevant to what?"

"Relevant to understanding how you might feel about being at loose ends as you have been. Relevant to why I've had a ridiculous amount of free time. Relevant to why I didn't want my mother's smothering even more than usual."

"Right, I have no idea what your point is." Hermione watched his hands as he stirred and poured. They were steady, though he seemed a bit upset, now that they'd come to talk about it. "And I think I might have said you don't owe me any explanations."

"Ah, but I do, because I'm thinking the reason will matter some."

"O...kay." 

He ladled the chocolate into two mugs and handed her one, then turned and leaned back against the edge of the counter as he took a sip. "The simplest story is, I had a bit of an accident last autumn."

"How big a bit?"

"Big. I mean, dragons aren't tiny even when they're babies, and the one that surprised me was hardly that."

"I assume a dragon that surprises you does so with fire?"

"I suppose that's not the only possibility, but in this case, yes, with fire. So, I didn't come home then, because for one thing the colony has better specific medical help than any hospital, and for another we hoped I might recover well."

"But you didn't."

"But I didn't. Well, no, I did, comparatively, but in some important senses, no. So, it came to Christmas time, and it made sense to come home. But I was only going to stay a few days, maybe a week, and then go back and try to figure out my life, right?"

"But you didn't go back. Is that my fault?"

He shrugged. "Trouble is, 'fault' is the wrong word entirely, because it implies that a person is being blamed for a bad thing, and it's really not a bad thing that I stayed."

"I see. So when you said you knew something about being at loose ends, you meant you needed the distraction, too."

He set down his half-drunk cup and shook his head. "I can see you might think so, but actually, I think neither of us needed _distraction_ so much as _understanding_. But still, I sort of never really had a plan for what to do next, until I started listening to you talk about losing your way and not quite knowing who to be."

"Charlie, I..." Hermione sighed. "You might have noticed I'm a get-to-the-point kind of girl."

"I might have. But if I go get to the point, you have to agree to hear me out anyway."

"I can't be that frightening."

"Oh, no, you're bloody terrifying, in a way. Still, all right, here it is. I went back to clear up my place and have everything I wanted to keep shipped back, because I was still hoping you might be willing to do something not at all rebound-like."

She blinked. "Wait. So you quit your job before actually explaining about the accident and asking this question?"

"See, I told you I should have told you first. I mean, I can't do the job I've done for years now anyway. I _could_ do other things at the colony, but the appeal of the place really isn't managing the paperwork, and besides, there's nothing _really_ holding me there."

"And here, you have family."

"That's been true since the beginning of time, Hermione. But now, I have other things here, like going to see what's playing at the theaters, and arguing about interpretations and stuff. Which, yes, Romania has theaters, and there are translation charms which is just as well because my Romanian is seriously dreadful, but I didn't get to argue with anyone there."

"And arguing is good."

"Of course arguing is good, if you like the person you're arguing with and want to keep arguing about all sorts of things, not as some sort of demented game of extreme arguments involving a point system. Yes, arguing is fine. Fighting, like as a way of life, not so much, but having a conversation in which you try to convince another person, with passion and heat? Yes, that's good."

"Aside from the way you're rambling worse than Harry usually does, you realize you make arguing sound like sex."

"It's a fair enough comparison, and actually, I'm hoping there's sex, too--and I'll try to stop. Rambling, not sex. Not working very well so far."

She nodded. "Right, so the sex part, I'm not so surprised about, because I think we've been heading pretty clearly in that direction, and somewhere along the line I stopped feeling as though you being Ron's brother made the whole thing a terrible idea. I mean, it still might be, but not inherently. But I didn't quite realize how involved you were, as far as going to the theater and such."

"Well! You've met my family."

"Once or twice."

"Yes, so: Bill is smart as fuck, but between the fact he's Mister Practical in the first place and the fact that he's all about Fleur and the girls, and then Percy, he's a great fan of details, but not so much metaphor..."

"And George is a lot of fun and also quite clever, but I don't think I've ever heard him talk about books or shows as anything other than a profit opportunity," Hermione mused. "So you're saying you, what, didn't have anyone else to appreciate these things with? I'm sure you might have found someone for that!"

"Well yes, I rather hope I did, but what I was going to say was, between them and the other dragon wranglers--whom I also love to pieces, you know; I'm not digging at them--I'm used to sort of going to see things but not really getting all excited, only with you, there was both, and I liked it. I mean, I _found_ I liked it, that day with the art exhibit, and I only liked it more subsequently."

"So we've concluded that we both needed understanding, and we both like things like plays and literature."

"True, but I think Lucius Malfoy enjoyed fine art, and I never wanted to go gallery-hopping with him."

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Ew."

"See?" 

"But that's no basis for a relationship, is it?"

"It's about a hundred times better than something based on only physical things, which, by the way, not likely to be a problem. No, I know it seems kind of sudden, but then, I've never been much for hanging about dithering, once I was aware of something I wanted to do."

"So, you have this plan to find a job in Britain--"

"In London, I'd prefer. Not that there's really a plan. I can probably get something at the Ministry eventually, wouldn't you think? Meanwhile, if you'll let me, I could be useful by cooking you dinner and stuff. When you go back to working full time."

Hermione shook her head. "I can't believe we’re having this conversation before we have _sex_."

"I didn't exactly want to roll over in the morning and find you were expecting a one-off and then have to explain about staying. Also, not that this is a primary reason, but you'll _see_ why I can't work with dragons any more, and I didn't very badly want to explain this while _physically_ naked, too."

She tilted her head, considering that out of everything he'd said, the feeling of nakedness, of being without one's usual trappings, was the thing that made her stop feeling funny about the whole conversation. She grinned ruefully. "See, I kept thinking it was odd you didn't want to be a fling, because, what, you wanted to be a long-distance relationship with complicated traveling and whatnot? And it never even occurred to me there was another option." She shrugged. "This is one of those times when I wonder about the general perception of me as clever. Managing to half-kill myself with forgetting to eat, by the way, was another."

"You had your reasons, and I wasn't being completely forthcoming."

"Yes, I realize that. Now, anyway." She realized she'd managed to drink all of her chocolate between bits of conversation, and took the cup to the sink. "Out of curiosity," she said, running water in it, and reaching to take up his abandoned cup as well, "you said Bill was Mister Practical, but you're not exactly Mister Flighty, are you?"

He turned to stand behind her. "No, I'm not flighty, except with the flying, which is not the same. I'm also pragmatic, which is why unless you tell me otherwise, I'm going to assume the fact you suddenly relaxed a minute ago means I can do this." His wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back close against his chest, dropping his head forward to nibble along her neck below her ear.

"Yes, you can do that," she said, "but this is moving to the bed in a minute, because nothing about this gets you out of showing me that scar."

"Fair enough," he said, chuckling quietly. He'd relaxed again now, too, apparently because she had, and she laughed with him because it was really silly how they were so comfortable together and yet had managed to make each other so nervous.

She turned around and leaned up to kiss him. "And for the record, it's been kind of a while, so--"

"I'm willing to bet you haven't forgotten how," he interrupted. "But also for the record, it's not like I've been running about having loads of wild sex for the last, what, five months?"

"Something like that. Also, only five months?" She scowled. "You realize people will talk. A lot."

"No hurry to tell anyone," he said. "They might be talking anyway, though, for all I know. I mostly really ignore that shit."

"True." She shook her head. "None of their damn business, anyway." She ducked under his arm and headed out of the kitchen and down the hall.

\--

"Maybe now would be a good time to mention I'm nearly sure I'm not going back to work," Hermione said. She'd originally gone out to get a glass of water, and was standing in the doorway, leaning naked against the frame, looking at Charlie sprawled on his belly on her bed.

"Oh?" He raised up onto his elbows and pushed back his sweaty hair as he looked at her.

She held up the scroll she'd placed on the desk earlier. "I wrote to Minerva. This is her answer."

He reached out for the scroll, then frowned and leaned over the edge of the bed to find his shirt and put on his glasses. She said nothing, watching the muscles of his back flex and relax as he shifted, and waited as he read down the page. The dragon, which did indeed extend down his arse and onto the back of one thigh, shifted and resettled. "You proposed adding a literature curriculum, then?" he asked.

"And she seems to have been thinking along the same line, in several ways, and would like to know if I'd be willing to see if it could work. Which… I realized earlier I'm never going to go back to MLE and _not_ fall back into the same patterns, at least to some degree, _even_ if I have a very able distraction. I'll see through what I already have, because that's only fair, but I think I'm done. Twenty-five, and completely through with climbing the ladder there. Who would have thought? But anyway. Did you get to the part where she mentions having other ideas about changes?"

He made a sound that she took to mean no, and glanced back down. She crossed to sit on the bed and run her fingers along the dragon's ridges. It opened one eye and puffed at her menacingly, which made her laugh. "Your dragon hates me, by the way."

Charlie glanced over his shoulder. "That one can go to the devil; the one up front here likes you just fine."

"Charlie!"

"I think we already covered this. It's a boy trait." He rolled over and handed back the letter. "She wants to add other subjects too?"

"Including a de-emphasis on hugely theoretical subjects for those who are not so inclined, and an addition of some more practical subjects, as well as a more comprehensive program in physical pursuits. Not necessarily as a subject, beyond the flying lessons and such that already exist, but as a part of school life." She lifted a brow and traced the top ridge of the heat-sensitive scar that started on the outside of his hip and went down the front of his thigh past his knee. "Any chance you might be willing to chase eleven-year-olds about a pitch and introduce Quodpot? I haven't noticed this hampering your ability to move."

He frowned and twitched away from her hand slightly. "No, it doesn't restrict movement, or not enough to notice. And I have no particular plans except the ones that involve making you moan--you suppose she'd give us adjoining quarters?"

Hermione laughed. "I have no idea, but I imagine if anyone _is_ talking, that part of the letter is entirely directed at and intended for you. The woman is the picture of decorum, but as I recall, she's also terribly fond of gossip."

"I believe I've heard that about her." Charlie set the letter on the side table and reached up to his face for his glasses, but Hermione caught his hand. 

"Oh, no. I think I like them where they are."

"Oh, you do?" He rolled onto his back and pulled her toward him until she was stretched out atop him, kissing her way across his chin and down the column of his throat. When she returned to nibble at his bottom lip, the glasses were all fogged, and she grinned and Summoned her wand to make them impervious., then went back to nibbling.

Or tried; he'd apparently had enough of being teased, and rolled them quickly, settling between her thighs and nuzzling at her sternum as his hands wandered, tweaking at a nipple and then smoothing down her hip only to pinch her bum and make her squeal. 

"I like that sound," he said, glancing up at her.

"Just as well; it wasn't entirely voluntary."

He blew a raspberry against her belly and then kissed his way lower, then stopped short. "Oi."

"What?"

"Look." He nodded toward the tattoo, which was, he'd been thrilled to learn, on her inner thigh. An hour ago it had been the closed bud of an unknown flower, green and fuzzy-leafed with hints of scarlets and blues in the furled petals. It had been that way since the day she got it, but now that she was watching it change, she could feel the dyes and charms shifting. The flower was opening, as brilliantly red and violet as promised, and as they stared, the petals opened and flattened into the pages of a wee book. As the design quieted again, Hermione opened her thigh wider, ignoring Charlie's lascivious groan, and prodded it with her finger. The book flopped closed to show cover art that couldn’t possibly be mistake for anything other than Hogwarts, then opened again.

"He said it was a potential tattoo," she said, "and that I needed it. I didn't quite see his point--possibly because I failed to realize 'potential' was a description of something it would _do_ \--but the flower was pretty regardless, and he said something about how I'd know when I saw it because how I felt would match. I guess this would be that." She traced the slender fine lines of the pages that occasionally fluttered in the non-existent wind. "I think it approves."

He kissed the soft skin and looked up. "I think so, too."

The book shifted again as a page turned, and they both laughed. A tiny man, red-haired and broad-shouldered, flew on a broom in the art on the little page. "Apparently, it's really specific," she said.

"I don't know, that could be George," Charlie said. "I mean, except for how I'd have to neuter him."

"No discussion of neutering anyone who I have no plans to let see this anyway," Hermione said, shifting downward and pulling him up to meet her. "I'd rather think positive, like I'm thinking positive about making all these changes."

"You'll be brilliant at them, you know." He stopped to suckle at her nipple, then kissed his way up to her collarbone before sliding into her, groaning with her at the sensation. She dropped her knees out wide and pulled him in tight, closing her eyes tightly because she was already somewhat sore from their earlier energetic and extended (and rather widely creative) activity. She didn't very much care about winding up sore just now, but he stopped at her second groan. "Still all right?"

She opened her eyes. "Oh, yes. And as I just said, positive thinking, which includes the certainty that I will get a serious and comprehensive massage in the morning."

"I can do that." He slid his hands under her shoulders and pushed into her again, then reached over and turned out the light.

"Hey. What if I want to see?" She arched and curled, unwilling to stop just because they were talking.

"Got lots of time to look," he assured, moving again himself and eliciting another groan. "Now, let's feel, and see where it takes us."

She was silent for a moment, feeling the sweat gathering between them, the full sensation of him inside her, the tension building, and then she nodded in the dark and found his lips for a kiss. "I think I like our direction."

**Author's Note:**

> Tags notes: 
> 
> Past Ron/Hermione. This story starts as Ron and Hermione's relationship is ending. She's sad about it, and he's moving on in ways that she finds hard to deal with. Ultimately they are not angry at each other and this doesn't change that fact that Harry and the Weasleys in general are still family to her.
> 
> Rebound relationships. I did and do think that people who move on from a relationship and form a new one are doing what they need to, most of the time, and that doesn't make them a shitty person; on the other hand, when I wrote this I was still just a couple years into being divorced and watching my kids' dad have other babies that were not mine. Anyway, I wasn't trying to demonize Ron and I think I did okay, but there's a decent chance some of that came through.
> 
> Passively disordered eating. There are things about this I would write differently now, in 2020 when I'm putting it on AO3, than I did in 2009. However, I wasn't prepared to do the kind of rewrite that would take. Here's what I know in 2020: our relationships with food are complicated and sometimes fraught, because ugh social pressures and emotional health, and I know a WHOLE lot of people who don't think they deserve certain foods or whose eating behavior is divorced from their actual nutritional needs because of pressure to look a certain way, and so they choose not to eat, which is a little different than what's going on here. I do think passively starving oneself can be a thing that happens -- not a specific and deliberate choice not to eat, but rather not a choice TO eat -- but I also think that someone in Hermione's shoes here should probably have a more comprehensive evaluation and chat with an expert. Anyway, if you are struggling with food and your body, I encourage you to have that chat, but I also want to tell you you are enough exactly the way you are.


End file.
